


The King and his Coeurl

by KivaEmber



Series: Wine Cellar [36]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: AU, Adventure & Romance, Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Anxiety, Assassination Plot(s), Assassination attempts, Bigotry & Prejudice, Childhood Friends, Class Differences, Dragons are in this, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Language Barrier, M/M, Magic-Users, Male!WoL - Freeform, Maybe - Freeform, Mercenary!WoL, Miqo'te!WoL - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prince!Aymeric, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Weird Plot Shit, With assassins!, Worldbuilding, alternative universe, eventually, soon to be king but whatever, there will be smut, you can blame tumblr for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-04 19:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 62,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15154448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KivaEmber/pseuds/KivaEmber
Summary: Prey had to be lucky many times, but a predator only had to be lucky once.Or;Aymeric is the sole heir to the empty throne of Ishgard. Unfortunately there are a few who don't want him to claim it.





	1. Chapter 1

_“You wish for me to stay? Ah, handsome, you should know what I’m going to say to that.”_

_“What will you give me?”_

_“Exactly. So… what will you give me, handsome?”_

_“My body and soul and all my heart…”_

_“But I already have those, handsome. You can’t pay me in something that’s already mine.”_

* * *

 

The day of Aymeric’s departure was sweltering hot.

The summer sun blazed down at them, casting an unforgiving glare on the stone courtyard of the modest House Borel. Knights, servants and squires all bustled about in preparation for the journey, all dodging the restless Chocobos saddled and armoured, ready to go, all jostling and squawking at one another. Aymeric overlooked it from his quiet spot in the corner of the courtyard under the shade of a lone apple tree. It didn’t help him escape the heat, already sweating beneath the light chainmail for the long ride, but he was too busy trying to dispel the tight, queasy feeling of nerves gnawing at his stomach.

He didn’t want to go, was the short of it.

Aymeric had hoped that his status as a bastard would have allowed him to dodge this cruel fate. House Borel may not have been his birthplace, but it was the home he knew and loved. It was of a minor house, the ‘Noble Farmers’ they were called with a mocking sneer, but Aymeric was proud to be that. They presided over lush farmland and generous orchards, away from the trappings of the capital, content to be far away from the politics of the High Houses. Aymeric had always expected to take up Lord Borel’s duties as his legal heir, because who would have thought an illegitimate son would have a claim on the throne?

He pulled uncomfortably at his chainmail, knowing that the journey was going to be terrible and trying. He was tempted to feign illness, sudden heat stroke perhaps, but he knew it was just a childish, fleeting fancy. Lord Borel would see through him in an instant, and Aymeric… did not want to disappoint him. It was be ungrateful of him, for all Lord Borel has done for him, and this was his duty… handed to him all because of an unfortunate fall from the Chocobo.

The King had been his father’s… _true_ son and had ascended only two years before. He was known to be charismatic, pious and scholary… too scholary, some had said. So, to demonstrate his prowess in the saddle and in battle, the King had arranged a marvellous tourney, inviting all and sundry to participate with himself as a challenger. Everyone flocked to it, of course, even though everyone privately agreed that the King would win, for none would dare to unhorse him at jousting or harm him during the melee.

Aymeric remembered receiving a personal invitation himself. For reasons beyond him, the King had always tried to keep in touch with him despite his father’s deep disapproval of it. Aymeric didn’t even know _how_ he managed to learn of his shameful existence. But the King did, and his letters were always kind, expressing interest to meet him face to face, and he had invited him to this tourney, his words passionate and friendly. But… Aymeric had felt… he could not describe his emotions, though he recognised them as petty, so he had burned the letter and refused to go, Lord Borel going in his place to maintain face. Lord Borel did not judge him for it, but Aymeric felt craven all the same.

It was also why Aymeric was in the predicament he was in now. The King was a poor rider, so poor that his unfortunate opponent, a hedge knight called Knight Brandeux, now _Kingslayer_ , had accidentally slain him by knocking the King so violently off his horse that he had broken his neck. The King survived the fall but… his health declined rapidly, and as he had no clear heir, people fretted over the succession, the looming threat of civil war… until the King, with his dying words, declared that his half-brother, Aymeric de Borel, the _Bastard_ , will succeed him.

Aymeric had prayed it had been a joke. Some mean jest someone played to get the court in aflutter. But no. Lord Borel had returned, grim-faced and heavy-hearted, and told him that it was his duty to present himself to the Holy See and be anointed as the Blessed King of Ishgard. The King’s words had been witnessed by his loyal retainers and a priest of Halone – and so his final words will come to past.

And so, the history book had closed on the short reign of King Eveux II and opened on King Aymeric, First of his Name.

For that alone, Aymeric thought he hated the half-brother he never met. Eveux must have known he wouldn’t have wanted this.

“Still brooding, are we?”

Aymeric looked up from where he was scowling at a dried, withered apple on the floor to see Estinien swaggering up to him. His old friend was dressed in his Dragoon armour, seemingly unaffected by the sweltering sun. His helmet was tucked under his arm, his pale hair loose and tumbling, stirring at the weak, hot breeze that swept through the courtyard occasionally. He looked irritatingly amused about something.

“Thinking, more like,” Aymeric sighed, running a hand through his hand. He could feel a few half-curls stick straight up from sweat alone and grimaced, “Sweating too, apparently.”

“From nerves?” Estinien mocked lightly, “It is a big day for yourself. You get to depart on a two week journey to the capital, having knights herald your approach as ‘King Aymeric’. I wonder how many assassinations you will need to survive?”

“Please, don’t even jest,” Aymeric groaned, already envisioning cloaked men with daggers coming for him in the night. He was aware his appointment was _not_ a popular thing amongst the noble houses, High or Low. High House Fortemps, at least, offered their cautious congratulations, but they had always been a friend to House Borel and most likely hoped to take advantage of that. Lord Edmont was a kind, honourable man, but he was shrewd and always put his family first. The other three… Aymeric had heard nothing, and suspected they were waiting to see if he even _survived_ the journey to the Holy See.

The minor houses would just be catpaws to those within the High Houses. After Aymeric, there was House Durendaire’s current lord who had a legitimate claim, as well as his two younger brothers, and then there was House Fortemps with Lord Edmont’s sons, and then House Dzaemel’s Lord and finally House Haillenarte’s current Lady and her daughter. Out of the four, Aymeric supposed he had to worry about House Fortemps the least, and House Durendaire the _most_.

Aymeric buried his face into his hands as he considered it. All these Lords and Ladies he only knew as names on official letters were now going to be a focal part of his life. He will have to court the four High Houses, get them on side, support him, and then the minor Houses will soon follow. He will have to be impeccable with his manners and bearing and _socialise_ and, whilst Aymeric found such things enjoyable here in House Borel, at least he knew that a social faux pas _here_ would just earn him a week of embarrassment whereas in the Holy See it might have a devastating effect on the political landscape. The mere thought almost made him feel faint.

He was drawn out of his increasingly gloomy thoughts by Estinien laying a hand on his mailed shoulder, “Take a deep breath, Aymeric,” his friend told him wearily, “You’re doing that thing you do: _overthinking_.”

“I don’t think I’m thinking _enough_ ,” Aymeric groaned, dragging his fingers down his face before straightening up, “I was happy being a ‘Noble Farmer’. All this King business… why, I would rather pass it onto you.”

Estinien snorted, “I would ruin the kingdom within a week.”

“A week? I was thinking a day, myself.”

Estinien punched his shoulder, “Bastard.”

Aymeric rubbed his shoulder, looking over to where the Chocobos were getting ready. He could see the Master-of-Chocobo preparing his mount, a handsome and strong-legged bird by the name of Viyax. If she was being saddled, then the time to leave was soon.

“Estinien, I wish you could come with me,” Aymeric sighed wistfully, “The journey would be bearable with you there.”

“You would grow sick of me more like,” Estinien said, but his expression softened, “But I wish I could go with you too, friend. If I wear your father down some more, I should be able to get to the Holy See before the winter comes and the road freezes. I would happily pledge myself to your service.”

Into the Heavensward – the group of knights sworn to the king’s protection. They were renowned to be pure-hearted and dedicated knights, and it was difficult to cram Estinien into that template. His friend was loyal and fierce, but he was prickly and blunt and was not quick to empathise. Still, Aymeric would breathe easier at the Holy See with his friend at his side.

“I will be sure to bury him in letters asking for you then, to help wear down his resolve,” Aymeric said with a weak smile. No doubt he wouldn’t be seeing Estinien until the Spring. His friend was a powerful Dragoon, worth an entire cadre of well-trained knights. As Lord Borel was sending his best knights with him to the Holy See, House Borel would be vulnerable to any opportunistic brigand, or the occasional Behemoth that prowled through the farmlands. No, Aymeric knew Lord Borel wouldn’t release Estinien from service until the knights that escorted him returned.

Estinien reached out – and Aymeric met him halfway, and they clasped each other’s wrists in a tight, firm grip.

“Have a safe journey,” Estinien told him seriously, “And watch out for assassins. You’ll be a poor King indeed if you never even got to sit on that ugly throne because of some lucky stab.”

Aymeric nodded, but that queasy feeling was back at the reminder. A lucky stab. That was all that was needed from here until the Holy See – and thereafter. The moment he stepped through those gates, Aymeric would be prize prey indeed, a target that could always meet have an unfortunate accident on the road, paving a way for one of the other claimants to seize the throne. Aymeric would have to be alert constantly, and pray Halone for her protection, because after all…

Prey had to be lucky many times, but a predator only had to be lucky once.

* * *

The sun was at its zenith when everyone was ready to depart.

Aymeric’s escort were all mounted. A group of twenty knights, laden in impeccably shined armour that will soon grow dusty from the road, armed with swords and spears and crossbows, every single one loyal to House Borel and their newly sworn king. A bannerman was at the rear of the company, holding the thick, brass staff of their standard. The deep blue banner of House Borel fluttered in the weak wind, its emblem of a silver tree with deep winding roots rippling from the cloth’s movements.

He was seated on Vayix, extremely uncomfortable underneath the keen stares of the gathered knights and everyone who had come to see him off in the courtyard. Most of the servants and workers were busy in the fields – Aymeric had insisted not to make a spectacle of his departure – but those who could come did regardless. Visant the Master-of-Chocobo, who had taught him how to ride, Ejaux the kennel master, Aumaux the Master-of-Arms, Honnix the Steward, Ezelle the shieldmaiden of their small Halonic chapel… as well as most of the guards and household servants who had watched him grow up from a toddler to a man.

Aymeric identified the heavy feeling in his belly as homesickness – and he hadn’t even left yet.

Lord Borel was conspicuously absent, but they had not parted amicably despite Aymeric obeying his duty, and it made him feel all the worse for it. He wished to dismount and run to Lord Borel’s solar but… no, too late for that now. He had time whilst brooding under the apple tree, and it was missed. He will make amends after winter, when Estinien came to join him in Spring. By then, Aymeric felt he would’ve settled into his throne and could chance the journey back. He’ll tell him… he’ll tell him…

His eyes fell on Estinien, standing just to the side of the gates open wide. His friend had donned the Dragoon helmet, but he could see the wry smile on his lips. He must hate this separation just as much as he…

Aymeric focused on the road ahead and took a deep breath. No longer was he Ser Aymeric, heir to the Noble Farmer, Lord Borel. The moment he crossed that threshold, he would become King Aymeric, First of his Name and must act accordingly.

He spurred Vayix on, and his Chocobo started off into a brisk trot with an eager _wark_. Behind him he heard the clatter of plate armour, the sound of numerous clawed feet thudding against the stone as his knights followed him – then went past, forming a solid wall around him as they left House Borel. He only caught a quick glimpse past the shell of armoured knights of Estinien waving farewell, and Aymeric burned that image into memory. It would be the last he saw of him until Spring.

With that, Aymeric de Borel left for the Holy See.

* * *

The first day they rode long and hard until it became too dark to safely proceed. The Captain of his escort, Knight Asette, called to camp on the edge of the Willowed Woods. It was a large expanse of forest that stretched out for acres before it hit the wide river that separated Borel lands from Rouvaux’s. It was rich with game and had a wide merchant’s road winding through it – but was perilous at night. Strange creatures roamed there in the darkness,  and it was well known that you made camp before it if you knew you wouldn’t travel through it before nightfall.

Along with the knights there were squires and servants who accompanied them. They erected tents and handled the cooking and other administrative tasks, but it meant Aymeric had nothing to do. He laid awake for a long while in his modest tent, listening to the strange howls and screams of the creatures that roamed the Willowed Woods. If one believed the frightened tales of hunters, Leshens and Werewolves and Fiends crawled in there, eager and ready to devour any lost traveller.

It was said that such creatures didn’t roam this land anymore… except here, apparently. Listening to those odd sounds, Aymeric was loathed to pass them off as simple wolves. There was something… _other_ about the noise.

One noise echoed above the rest – a deep inhuman scream. It was guttural and agonised and full of fury, and Aymeric could hear the Chocobos shying and spooking beyond the thin canvas of his tent. Whatever was in the Willowed Woods that night was angry and _close_ , but no matter how it howled, how it screamed, it quietened as dawn approached until it was utterly silent.

Needless to say, no one slept that night.

It was to tired eyes and many yawns that they broke fast and then camp with the humid warmth of an early summer morning. Aymeric was feeling done with the journey already and they hadn’t even left House Borel lands yet.

They entered into the Willowed Woods at a swift pace, his escort bracketing him tight on either side. The trees here were old and lean, their bark mottled white with moss, and clustered so tight together with a canopy so thick it blocked the sun out almost entirely. It was murky dark as their Chocobos nervously trotted through, but despite the noises of last night, Aymeric wasn’t afraid. Merchants and travellers alike all swore this road was safe during the day – some ancient magic beyond their time, perhaps – but there was still something very _primal_ about it. Ancient. Aymeric couldn’t help but feel like there was something watching them – but the path was clear and there was no noise except for themselves. They were as safe as a traveller could be.

That was, of course, tempting fate.

As soon as that thought crossed his mind, a loud, splintering _crack_ snapped through the air, making the Chocobos jump and squawk. Aymeric stiffened up, barely taking Vayix in hand when the knights either side of him quickly dropped their hands to their swords, the entire escort pulling to a sharp halt. He could see Knight Asette at the front of the party look from side to side, her Chocobo shifting nervously underneath her.

It was quiet, except for the noise of creaking leather, clinking metal, and the nervous cheeping of skittish Chocobos. Except… that was _strange_ , wasn’t it? Aymeric had travelled through Willowed Woods a few times, and even during the day it was a cacophony of noise: of songbirds and wolves and insects. There was nothing. Even the air felt dead and stale in a wood that should be fresh with the smell of earth.

 _‘CRACK’_!

Viyax scooted to the side, _kwehing_ agitatedly, as this crack snapped out – closer this time, then, _CRACK, CRACK, CRACK_ , in quick succession, sounding like, like-

“MOVE BACK!” Knight Asette suddenly screamed, and Aymeric found himself forced back when the knights spurred their mounts backwards, Viyax terribly unhappy and distressed from the confusion. No sooner had they all scuttled back several yalms, the _CRACKS_ revealed themselves to be felling trees, all falling like dominos, accompanied now by the heavy footfalls and grunting snarls of-

A tree collapsed across the road, cutting it off entirely, and something all but crashed through the trees and onto the road in a stagger. It towered over them, a hulking shadow that blocked out what little sunlight managed to penetrate through the canopy, sending a pale-yellow dapple pattern over its broad, near-grotesquely muscled shoulders. A heavy, horned head swung carelessly towards them, blazing red eyes glowering at them, yellowed teeth bared in a ferocious snarl in a maw large enough to swallow Viyax whole if it wanted.

“Halone preserve us…” Captain Asette whispered in realised horror, “It can’t be…”

The entire earth felt like it trembled when the beast heaved its body to face them, its tail slithering against the ground and swatting the felled tree like it weighed nothing. The tree _bounced_ as it rolled away with a low, crunching noise. It growl reverbed in Aymeric’s chest, making his heart race as he clutched tight at Viyax’s reins.

“A _King Behemoth_ ,” Knight Oseux at his side whimpered, “What is it… what is one of those doing _here_?”

“With chains,” Knight Elmie on his other side said grimly. Indeed, beneath its filthy, shaggy mane, a thick collared chain was wrapped around its neck, and its thick, muscles limbs. There were no _broken_ chains, so it clearly didn’t pull itself free.

“Back away slowly…” Captain Asette said softly, which was easier said than done. Every single Chocobo was quivering in fear, and it took every scrap of discipline to make them nervously shuffle back. The King Behemoth watched them with narrowed eyes, growling and snapping its jaws, following each of their slow, terrified steps, with a near plodding, methodical step of its own. It wasn’t backing away or staying. It was _following_ them, and Aymeric knew it was only a matter of time until-

One of the squires’ Chocobos broke. With a squawk the bird bolted and the squire yelped with terror – and with a roar, the King Behemoth lunged.

Everything instantly devolved into panicking, feathery chaos. Chocobos broke, bolted, Aymeric was nearly unseated when Viyax reared and squawked in terror as the King Behemoth crashed into the earth mere _malms_ from him, the force of its landing sending Viyax staggering. The Behemoth’s head swung violently and-

-its horn smacked Aymeric right off Viyax’s saddle.

It was like being kicked by a horse, the force of it was that _strong_. He cried out, tumbling off and hitting the hard, compact earth below. The air was driven out of him, his vision flashing white – something hot and wet splashed over him, Viyax screamed in pain, her feet uselessly kicking the air above him as the King Behemoth promptly snapped the bird up between its powerful jaws. There was so much yelling. Aymeric couldn’t breathe, his ribs afire with agony, his vision swirling as he realised the Behemoth had _snapped his ribs_ from hitting him with its _horn_.

The King Behemoth grunted and dropped Viyax almost contemptuously, and the last thing Aymeric saw before painful unconsciousness took him, was that red maw full of sharp fangs opening wide for him.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a… Beastman,” Aymeric said uncertainly, not looking away from his saviour in fear of the carnage he’d see around him.
> 
> “Well, Bald-Ears’ eyes still work,” the Beastman said dryly, “Yes, though I prefer Miqo’te. Proper name. ‘Beastman’ rude.”
> 
> “Like ‘Bald-Ear’?” Aymeric said stiffly.
> 
> The Beastman- the Miqo’te’s eyes squinted, and Aymeric got the impression he was smirking at him, “You rude first.”
> 
> Well, Aymeric couldn’t argue that.

 

Aza was filling up his water bottle when he heard the roar.

He paused, his ears flicking forwards attentively as he finished up bottling the fresh, clear spring water. Screams quickly accompanied the noise, the clanging of battle, and Aza reluctantly lifted his head to peer through the tightly packed trees. It must be close by – the forest dampened noise like no other, making it terribly easy to sneak up on creatures here – and Aza had heard the cracking of felling trees, the heavy breathing of a flagging beast, but had paid it little mind as it had been moving _away_ from him. He guessed the wandering monster must have stumbled onto the merchant’s road.

Weird. Monsters were nocturnal here.

He screwed the cap on his bottle, listening to the noise of battle grow fiercer – someone started trumpeting a war horn, how cute – and let his gaze wander to his companion. Rations, his faithful Chocobo and best friend, looked utterly unbothered by the noise. She was squatting on her powerful legs, preening one stubby wing with her chipped, sharp beak. She was a Wasteland Chocobo, well-known to be almost twice as big as her Eorzean cousins, with two long ‘ears’ dangling down from her head. Aza decorated those with beads and bells, so she always jingled whenever she moved her head. Rations liked it.

“What do you think?” he asked her, clipping his water bottle to his belt and pushing himself to his feet, “Worth it?”

“ _Kweh_.”

Rations pulled out a bent pinion, let it drop into the spring murmuring next to them, and heaved herself to her feet. Seemed like she was bored too.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Aza hummed, stooping down to pick his helmet up off the mossy floor. He slipped it over his head, clipping it in place, feeling the warm metal press comfortably against his skin. He peered into the spring, running his fingers over the snarling Behemoth that looked back at him, his yellow eyes almost glowing through the narrow eyeslits, “We might as well.”

It was easy to traverse the perilous ground. Gnarled roots bent out of the soft, mossy floor, hiding ditches or swamps that threatened to twist an ankle or trip you up. Aza deftly evaded them all, pushing through the underbrush with Rations stomping behind him, drawing closer to the noise of battle. People were still yelling, but it was desperate – frightened – and he could smell blood, hear dying men and Chocobos, and the low, guttural snarls of-

“A King Behemoth,” Aza purred, delighted. Oh, he hadn’t encountered one of those out of the Wastelands before. How strange to see one so far from home… but, everything was migrating out of the Wastelands, now that the Allagan Wall was decaying. Perhaps one of the Vargr decided to risk pissing off the Bald-Ears and were ranging out into these lush farmlands?

“ _Wark_.”

“Don’t be a baby, it’ll be fine.”

“ _Chhrrrr_ ,” Rations clacked her beak, but followed Aza sullenly.

At this point they were close enough to see glimpses of movement in the narrow spaces between the trees. Aza could see the flashes of metal catching sunlight, the hulking shadow of the Behemoth, the crunch and cracking of splintering wood and churned up earth. At one point the Behemoth ripped up a chunk of the road that went smashing through a battered tree, the compact earth breaking apart into pieces and embedding into surroundings vegetation.

“Here we go,” Aza chirped, breaking out into a brisk run. He hopped over a broken tree stump, vaulted over a fallen tree, and landed on the very edge of the broken-up road, next to the mauled remains of an armour plated Bald-Ear. Huuuuh. One of _those_.  

Aza quickly took stock of the situation. The King Behemoth had his back to him, its muscles rippling as it lunged after an impressively nimble figure in heavy chainmail. A woman – long hair, undone and slick with sweat, bloodied face, bloodied sword, tall, Bald-Ear, desperate – and all around her dead men and dead Chocobos. Strange. Why did she linger when they were so outmatched?

Even stranger was when the Behemoth surged forwards, massive paw sweeping out. She could’ve dodged. She didn’t. She planted her feet, holding up her laughably pitiful shield, bracing before a prone body on the road-

 _CRUNCH_.

Aza winced at the noise, the woman ragdolling as she was flung into a tree on the opposite side of the road. The tree’s bark fractured from the force she hit it, and she flopped bonelessly onto the road, sword and shield gone. The Behemoth breathed out a growl, its head swinging lazily to the prone body, tongue lolling out as it took a step, jaws opening wide. A live one, then. Behemoth preferred live prey.

Rations clawed up the steep bank on the side of the road, huffing and fluffing her feathers up. Aza cast her a brief look, before pursing his lips together and letting out a sharp, ear-piercing whistle.

The King Behemoth froze, jaws only ilms from the body – then looked over its muscled shoulder at him with ravenous intensity.

“I think you won that meal too easily,” Aza called over to it conversationally, lifting his hand to grip the hilt of his greatsword. He half-unlatched it from its magnetic sheath, his other hand reaching out, gathering aether on the very tips of his fingers. It flickered like a mirror catching the sun, and the Behemoth’s eyes squinted, snout wrinkling in agitation, “C’mere and earn it. C’mon. Over here. You _ugly_ , disgusting-”

With a roar, the King Behemoth charged towards him, enraged.

Aza smiled.

The King Behemoth lunged the moment it was close enough, its entire weight thrown into a pounce that would pulverise a normal man.

But Aza was no normal man.

He unslung his sword in an overhead swing.

* * *

In the end, it was disappointingly easy, like most Vargr-owned Behemoth.

Turned out this one was a _baby tamed one_.

How dull.

* * *

Aymeric roused with fire in his chest and a groan on his lips.

Someone spoke above him, but he did not recognise the words. They sounded growled out, and purred, and hissed, and gloved hands touched his neck, palm against his throat, before it shifted to his shoulder instead, giving him a shake. For a moment, Aymeric was groggily confused. What had happened? Did he fall off his Chocobo? He remembered… remembered entering the Willowed Woods, and… and…

It came to him. The Behemoth. Viyax crushed between its jaws. The horn that _broke_ his ribs.

His eyes flew open and he recoiled when he saw the Behemoth’s face looming over him. White hot pain lanced through him, and his vision was filled with bursting stars and bile hit the back of his throat – it took everything he had to breathe through it, gasping in pain as the Behemoth’s visage went fuzzy around the edges.

“ _Gwisg_ , ah, hmm… okay?” The Behemoth’s head cocked, and slowly, Aymeric realised it was a _mask_. Too small, metallic, with yellow, beastly eyes peering down at him from its visor, “You okay?”

The accent was so thick the words were almost incoherent, but Aymeric, in his pained, groggy state, got the gist, “Y-Yes… I…” he stopped, cold realisation flooding him, “My knights – the squires- are they?”

“Ahhhh…” Behemoth-Mask let out a slow, resigned sigh, “Killed? Yes, killed. They are killed.”

Aymeric forgot about the pain in his ribs, feeling it in his heart instead. He knew every single one of those knights, and squires, and servants. He had practiced his swordsmanship and archery alongside most of those guards – Captain Asette had been most frequent sparring partner – the squires were _boys_ , and… Gods. Killed. _All of them_?

“All…?” he croaked, too stunned to say anymore.

“All,” Behemoth-Mask confirmed with a bob to his head, “Want to look?”

“No,” Aymeric squeezed his eyes shut, half of him wishing the Behemoth had gored him instead. All the knights killed, and here he lay, alive but wounded and at the mercy of this… person. _Foreigner_ , he realised. The accent was unfamiliar to him, and the way they stumbled with lowborn Common was very telling. He gritted his teeth, squinting his eyes open again and asked, “Who are…?”

Behemoth-Mask laughed at him and gestured to something out of his line of sight. He spoke then, in a fast-paced, hissing-purring language, and a shadow cut over him. Painfully, Aymeric tilted his head back, and saw the largest, bulkiest Chocobo he had ever seen looming over him. It snapped its beak at him, then flung out its stubby wings, green-tinged aether swirling into fresh life.

The pain in his ribs eased.

“ _Magic_ …” Aymeric gasped, amazed. A Chocobo with healing magic? That was practically _unheard of_.

“Wasteland Chocobo much better than, ah, magicless? No magic? Yes, no-magic Eorzea Chocobo,” Behemoth-Mask said smugly, and it was then that Aymeric knew who his potential saviour was.

A _Beastman_.

Behemoth-Mask continued, clearly unbothered by Aymeric’s sudden tension, “Ddogn heal you. Mm, wait… Ddogn _heals_ you. Yes. Do not worry, your ribs be well soon.”

Indeed, the pain was quickly fading from his chest, even if it still burned to breathe. The Chocobo – ‘thog-un’, as the Beastman called it – cut off the healing magic with an abrupt _kweh_ and a ruffle of its golden feathers. It flapped its wings once, twice, then turned away in open disinterest, plodding somewhere out of sight with the bobbing strut of a confident cock, bells jingling on its strange, drooping ear-like appendages.

“Better,” the Beastman said, patting Aymeric’s chest before leaning back to give him space. He quickly took it.

Aymeric sat up, wincing when his side throbbed unhappily, staring at his saviour. He was a short, stocky figure squatting on the balls of his feet, and a long, sandy-coloured tail curled up on the road next to his left boot, its fur silky and lush. He was dressed in a strange armour, with leather gloves and steel vambraces, a dark brown scarf, a boiled leather breastplate, and a long, steel-grey chainmail coat over black padded leather breeches. Over his shoulder, a monstrously huge greatsword rested, its weight seemingly not bothering the strange Beastman.

“You’re a… Beastman,” Aymeric said uncertainly, not looking away from his saviour in fear of the carnage he’d see around him.

“Well, Bald-Ears’ eyes still work,” the Beastman said dryly, “Yes, though I prefer _Miqo’te_. Proper name. ‘Beastman’ rude.”

“Like ‘Bald-Ear’?” Aymeric said stiffly.

The Beastman- the _Miqo’te’s_ eyes squinted, and Aymeric got the impression he was smirking at him, “You rude first.”

Well, Aymeric couldn’t argue that.  

“My… apologies, I spoke without thinking,” Aymeric said awkwardly. He felt like he was in a weird dream – nightmare, more like, making small talk when everyone... in his periphery vision, he thought he could see Captain Asette sprawled in an unnatural heap, but he daren’t look. Behind the Miqo’te, he could see the hulk of the Behemoth slumped in the middle of the road, missing its head. Not a speck of blood coloured the road or the Miqo’te before him. Aymeric did not want to know what happened… except he did.

“Who are you?” he asked again.

The Miqo’te stared at him for a long moment, and his tail thumped in a sudden movement, making Aymeric jump.

“Aza,” the Miqo’te finally said, “Aza of the Wastes, yes. And Coeurl.”

“Because of the mask?” Aymeric said stupidly.

Aza laughed at him, “This is a _Behemoth_ mask! Maybe your eyes do not work after all.”

Aymeric looked at the snarling helmet – it was expertly crafted, so lifelike, with the yellow beastly eyes peering out at him making it seem even more real. He had never seen a Beastman- Miqo’te before, so he wondered if Aza’s face would resemble much of his helmet.

Aza suddenly fiddled with his belt and unhooked something from it. He held it out. A dark water bottle, crafted out of an odd, smooth material that was warm to the touch. Aymeric took it automatically and stared at it for a moment.

“It is water,” Aza told him patiently, “Bald-Ear remembers how to drink?”

“I do,” Aymeric mumbled, unscrewing the cap. He noticed that the more Aza spoke, the smoother his words became. His accent was still terribly thick, though, “And it is _Aymeric_. Aymeric de Borel.”

“Em-rikch,” Aza mimicked, mangling the end with a low, guttural ‘ _chh’_ noise that made him wince, “Em?”

“Aym is… fine,” Aymeric sighed, and took a much-needed swig of water.

Aza just watched him.

An awkward quiet fell on them, and Aymeric stared down the neck of the bottle with a blank mind. Dead. His entire escort dead… and only a day’s ride from House Borel. He could make it back on foot if need be – why, one of the villages near the Willowed Woods would no doubt send for Lord Borel if he staggered through but… what could he say? A King Behemoth suddenly appeared and killed everyone but him? A King Behemoth is _never_ seen so deep in Ishgardian lands. They roamed the very edges of the Wastes, a rare creature unsighted by anyone but those who lived in the frontier. To have one here…

“Halone, why did this happen…?” he murmured to himself, absolutely lost with grief. Had his wish to not take up the crown culminated in this? Had Halone sent this beast to punish him for his selfish prayer to avoid his duty? There was no way he could make it to the Holy See. Lord Borel would never strip House Borel of its defences by lending him Estinien – not if King Behemoths were on the prowl – so Aymeric would either must make the journey on his own… or not at all. Aymeric wouldn’t be King… at the cost of friends and loyal servants he had known since he was a child.

It wasn’t a worthy price. Not at all.

“Unlucky,” Aza said, answering his bleak question to the Fury, “It’s Tamer must have lost it. So, it roamed. Found you. Bad luck.”

…what?

“Tamer?” Aymeric lifted his head, staring at Aza’s snarling mask, “What?”

“Tamer,” Aza repeated, giving him a look like he was very dim, “That was baby King Behemoth, yes. Yes? Baby. Small. Tamed. _Weak_. Used for hunting by, um, the Vargr. Wolves? That is what they are. Vargr keep baby King Behemoth starved, so do not reach full size. Very bad-tempered. Probably the hunger, hah.”

Aymeric absorbed this slowly.

“Tamed,” he said quietly, “So, someone must have taken it here.”

“It is strange,” Aza agreed, “Those who tame these, they stay in the Wastes. Rare do they come to Eorzea. Bald-Ears get unhappy, they steal- ah, _confiscate_? Yes, confiscate. Take them. Kill them. So, Vargrs rarely come here, unless something makes it worth it.”

This meant something, Aymeric knew. He remembered Estinien joking in the courtyard only a day before, _“I wonder how many assassinations you will need to survive?”_

One so far, he thought distantly, suddenly feeling cold.

“Em?” Aza asked curiously, “You feel faint? You are pale.”

“What… would ‘make it worth it’, for a Vargr to come here?” Aymeric asked, barely recognising his own voice.

“Food, supplies, rare things,” Aza shrugged his shoulders, “Money is worth little to them. Wastes is harsh, and cannot pay Mother Nature to make it rain, or make food grow.”

Easy things to pay for an unattributable assassination. Aymeric had been expecting shadowy men in the night slipping into camp or whatever inn they managed to stay in to stab him in his sleep – he didn’t expect some Wasteland Beastman with _pet Behemoths_ travelling here to slay him. It would have been easy for them to choose the right time to strike as well. Between Eveux’s declaration of him as his heir, Lord Borel returning to give him the news, and all the preparations for his journey and all the letters that had to be written and sent off… it had been almost three months. Plenty of time for someone to hire a Vargr and have them travel from the Wastes to the Willowed Woods.

And this was the perfect ambush spot too. The Vargr could have stayed here for days and weeks, especially if they knew that those who travelled through _usually_ camped before it. Those who lived in the Wastes would no doubt find Willowed Woods quite pleasant in comparison, the monsters a non-issue with pet Behemoths at their command.

It also meant the Vargr was _still here_.

“Vargr very stubborn too,” Aza hummed, clearly coming to the same conclusion, “And petty.”

“Petty?”

Aza laughed, a low, dangerous and husky sound, “Vargr will be angry that I killed its pet. Will most like come for me. And you. Need to kill you too for its reward.”

“And… this doesn’t concern you?”

“Aza of the Wastes is not scared of some animal-fucker,” Aza said dismissively, waving a hand in a rude gesture, “Small prey. Weak.”

Aymeric didn’t know if Aza was arrogant or confident of just plain insane, “And the Behemoth?”

“Boring,” Aza sounded irritated, “I got excited, when I heard the roar. King Behemoth, yes! I thought, but no. Disappointment. Died in one blow. Ah, I lie, _two_. It squirmed on the floor after cutting its neck, so I took pity on it and chopped its head off.”

Aymeric tried to imagine this short, stocky Miqo’te chopping a King Behemoth’s head off in one blow and struggled. Was he lying? No, the beast was dead behind him, but perhaps he was exaggerating the battle? Either way, someone who could kill a King Behemoth by themselves… and Aymeric was growing aware that the moment this mysterious ‘Aza’ left him, he was a dead man if this Vargr lingered to finish the job.

A passing thought did cross his mind – what if _this_ was the assassin – but he dismissed it. If it was, it was a very strange, convoluted assassination. Aymeric hadn’t been able to move, in too much agony, and probably in danger of a punctured lung. Strange for an assassin to heal him and warn him, when it would have been easier to simply slit his throat or leave him behind for the wolves to eat.

“Well, anyways,” Aza said, pushing himself to his feet, “I best get to work. Behemoth materials pricey. Bald-Ears trade lots for them, so-”

“Accompany me,” Aymeric blurted.

“Ah?” Aza stared down at him in open befuddlement, “What?”

Aymeric felt himself redden at his ungraceful begging, but he cleared his throat and said, a lot more composed, “If you leave, this Vargr will come to finish the job, correct?”

“Yes,” Aza said simply, “It will. You will die, most like.”

“What if… you stay with me, until I return home?” Aymeric said very slowly, “I live only two day’s walk, or a day’s ride. It will be a short journey and- and my father is sure to reward you greatly for your service.”

Aza said nothing for a long moment. He looked at him.

“… a question, before I decide,” the Miqo’te said softly, his gaze uncomfortably intent, “Why would a Vargr try to kill you? This person who wants you dead… they ranged far to find something to kill you.”

Aymeric hesitated, wondering if he should lie, but something in Aza’s gaze dissuaded him. No, basing this on a lie was craven. He answered honestly, “Because I am to be crowned king of Ishgard, and there are some who… take exception to this and want it themselves.”

Aza rocked back on his heels and planted his hands on his hips.

“Complicated Bald-Ear games,” Aza summarised, “Hmm… what will you give me?”

“As I said, my father-”

“No,” Aza made a slashing motion with his hand, “I am not protecting _your father_. I am protecting _you_. So. What will _you_ give _me?_ ”

Aymeric watched the Miqo’te warily, trying to understand. A reward was a reward, but perhaps there were some cultural implications being lost in translation here? He adapted as well as he could, racking his brains as to what he could even _give_ the Beastman. All he had on him was his chainmail – and looking at Aza, his armour seemed to be better than _his_ – and whatever he had in his belt pouches.

“I have… nothing useful on me…” Aymeric said slowly, trying to think. Money wouldn’t tempt him, he knew. Aza just said that those from the Wastes relied on something _useful_ … oh. _Oh_.

“A favour,” he said quickly, “I will give you a favour.”

Aza cocked his head, his yellow eyes squinting at him suspiciously.

“Favour.”

“You may ask me of anything, at any time, and I will give it to you,” Aymeric explained, “It is something of an ‘I owe you’. If I- _once_ I claim the throne, I will have the resources of the kingdom to give you an appropriate reward.”

“ _If_ you claim throne,” Aza corrected, but he seemed amused now, “That is a dangerous offer, Em. I can ask anything.”

“You can, but you would have earned it,” Aymeric said, a plan beginning to form in his mind. The Fury may have punished him with this Behemoth, but perhaps this was Halone’s way of offering him redemption. Lord Borel won’t send him out with another escort, or Estinien, but if Aymeric needed to make the journey to the Holy See _alone_ … “In fact, you would earn it several times over, if you also accompany me to _claim_ my throne.”

“That is a big thing to ask.”

“You will get an open-ended favour in return. You can ask anything of me once I have the throne. That is a big reward in return.”

Aza was quiet for a long moment, clearly thinking it over. To their side, Aymeric could hear ‘Thogun’ _kweh_ over something. A wolf howled in the distance. A hot wind rustled the trees above them. Slowly, he could hear life returning to the woods around them. Even a bird began chirping cautiously.

“Once you have the throne…” Aza finally said, “I notice that wording.”

“If you take me to House Borel, to bring news to my father, and then accompany me to the Holy See of Ishgard,” Aymeric said, “You will have anything you want from me. But only then.”

“Anything?” Aza asked, his voice a dangerously soft purr.

 _This is dangerous_ , something in him whispered. Beastmen were notoriously tricksy and greedy, if one believed the tales. Letting him ask a boon of _anything_ from the Ishgardian King was a very dangerous and _reckless_ offer to make, but. But the simple fact was, Aymeric did not want this to end here. He did not want these brave knights and squires and servants lying dead in the road die for _nothing_. If he left here, this Vargr could set another beast on him, and whilst Aymeric was skilled in combat, even he would be hard-pressed to fight against _another_ Behemoth. He would certainly die, and the time the knights bought long enough for Aza to get here would have been worth _nothing_.

He… also didn’t want to die. There was that selfish little wish too.

Aymeric pushed himself off the floor, so Aza wasn’t looming over him. The Miqo’te didn’t seem cowed at all, looking up at him with keen, intent eyes. He was so short… but his presence was overbearing. Power was coiled in that stocky, short frame of his. Aymeric could see that clearly. This was not a creature to be dealt with lightly.

He did not want to be King, but neither did he want to be known as the heir who died on the road to his throne. His life was brought, right now, was bought with twenty knights, ten squires, and twelve servants. Forty-two lives in all. He owed it to them to _try_ and see this through, tricky deals with Beastmen or no.

So, he held out his hand.

“Anything,” he confirmed.

Aza looked at his hand for a moment, then reached out, clasping it tight.

“Then,” Aza said, his tone utterly satisfied, “It is a deal. My sword is yours, until that rump sits on Ishgard’s throne. I will claim my _favour_ then.”

Aymeric nodded, but a cold wind picked up then, making him shiver. It was a necessary thing but…

Why, then, did he just feel like he made a deal with a devil?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YUP. RATIONS IS A PULSE CHOCOBO FROM FFXIII IN THIS. She's big and strong and can kick your shit in. Aza looks comical sitting on her tho bc she's so big compared to him lol 
> 
> Also the armour Aza is wearing is the [Ursine armour](http://witcher.wikia.com/wiki/Bear_School_Gear) from Witcher III if only because I really like its design and it screamed 'TRAVELLING MERCENARY' to me. Excepting, of course, that Aza wears a helmet styled in that of a Behemoth to top it off. 
> 
> Anyways, I'm gonna pose a question to you guys! I originally planned this to be Aymeric/Aza, but after tweaking the plot some I realised there is space for Aza/Aymeric/Estinien, if people want that more, with some side dish of Aza/Haurchefant. SO POLLING TIME: 
> 
> 1) Aza/Aymeric  
> 2) Aza/Aymeric/Estinien + Aza/Haurchefant  
> 3) Aymeric/Haurchefant/Aymeric???  
> 4) or a variation of the above  
> 5) what other pairings do you want to see???? 
> 
> Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am sorry for disappointing. As you see, Miqo’te just man with ears and tail.” Aza said blandly, unhooking his helmet from his belt. He slipped it back on, feeling a lot more comfortable with the metal hiding his face from the world. Its warmth pressed against his cheeks, “Now then. We should walk. Walk before Vargr catches us with clothes down in ground.”
> 
> Aymeric’s briefly puzzled expression told Aza his attempt at the idiom fell flat. Oh well.

Aza stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow, his bone saw halfway through the King Behemoth’s horn. It was thicker than his waist and as dense as stone, so even Aza was exerting effort to slowly carve it off the beast’s head. Biting horseflies were already beginning to gather around, drawn by the fresh bodies, making a difficult job even more unpleasant. His ears kept flicking back and forth to dislodge particularly stubborn flies hovering around his head to no avail.

Ugh, it was time to take a break. Giving up for the moment in disgust, he leaned against the King Behemoth’s head and let his gaze wander over to his new problem project.

Aymeric, King of Ishgard (allegedly).

This wasn’t the first ‘king’ Aza had picked up. Ishgard was lousy with them, with this or that Bald-Ears declaring themselves first-cousin or other to this bloodline who was twenty-fifth in line to the throne which technically speaking made them a _prince_ or future king and if you do this there would be many riches and horses and food for the savage Beastman and blah blah blah. Bald-Ears tended to think that Aza was as dumb as a rock just because he was clumsy with his Eorzean Common and didn’t understand how succession worked. Well. They soon learned to regret that stupid assumption.

However, he had a good feeling about this one. Right now, he was watching Aymeric grimly gather up his broken party of knights and squires and servants and drag them to the side of the road to lie in a neat, dignified row. It looked to be tiring, mentally draining work, but still Aymeric soldiered on. It didn’t exactly mean Aza automatically believed him when he said he was ‘king’ but… well, he wasn’t a bad sort, at least.

Aza considered Aymeric for a few minutes longer, watching him linger over the body of the woman who had been smashed into the tree. He had found her sword and shield and set them over her chest, her arms crossed. Aymeric murmured something, but he was too far away and spoke High Ishgardian, which Aza knew little of.

It was private anyway. Aza turned back to his Behemoth carving, wrenching the bone saw back and forth and drowning out Aymeric’s pained mutterings.

He managed to dislodge both horns by the time Aymeric finished his depressing work and walked back to him. The Bald-Ear was looking a little pale and worn around the edges, blood still coating his chainmail and his eyes carrying that distant, exhausted look of a man so far into grief he was empty with it. It was a look often seen in the Wastes.

“I want to stop at the village before the woods,” Aymeric told him, “To send for someone to collect their bodies. They deserve a proper burial.”

By the time they reached the village it would be too late, Aza knew. The moment they left this area, the scavengers would come creeping out and not all of them the four-legged kind. The armour those knights sported would fetch a good price in some villages, for one. But he said none of this. Pointing it out would just be needless cruelty.

“Okay, if you wish,” he answered in careful Eorzean Common. Aymeric scrunched his nose a bit at his thick accent and Aza resented him mildly for it. He was trying his best here, “I sell my things there too. Behemoth things.”

Aymeric’s gaze flickered to the large horns resting on the dusty road, then to the headless body of the Behemoth. Its gaping neck was blackened and covered in a thick, charred scab, where Aza’s aether-charged swing had seared the flesh. It meant less mess, even if it used an inefficient amount of aether. Aymeric looked like he wasn’t sure what to make of it, judging by his frown.

“Just the horns?” Aymeric asked, modulating his words to be clear and slow – not enough to sound patronising, but enough so that his High Ishgardian accent didn’t obscure the syllables. Aza was privately grateful for it.

“Horns important part,” Aza said, “The hide- no. Not fur…”

“Hide works,” Aymeric said.

“Yes, then, the hide will be too much time. The Vargr will not sit on tail, waiting for us to finish this, this, um… _gwisg_ ,” Aza gestured at the dead Behemoth, briefly forgetting the Eorzean word, “ _Anghenfil_. I am surprised it had not come yet. Must be careful one.”

“Is that strange?” Aymeric asked warily, “’ _Un-char-ta-ris-tic’_ of them?”

Aza frowned at the unfamiliar word, struggling for a moment. “ _Un-chhhar-ta-rhhis-tichhck?_ I… do not know that word...”

“Uncharacteristic,” Aymeric repeated more slowly, sounding out each part, “It means, ah, to not act like they normally do.”

“Oh, then yes,” Aza muttered, rubbing at his forehead. He was beginning to get a headache, digging through a language he was barely fluent in. This was going to be a long journey if all they spoke in was Eorzean… “Not usual acting. Very odd.”

“I see,” Aymeric said, his expression difficult to read, “How _should_ the Vargr act?”

“It should have come here by now. Yelling. Petty. Being annoying,” Aza waved his hand dismissively, “With another of its beasts. It is much like the animals they keep. Short-tempered. Angry. Not… good thinking at... ah, I know the word… strat… stratesm?”

“Strategy? Strategically?”

“That is it,” Aza confirmed, “It is not thinking strategically. Very stupid.”

“Could they have simply given up?” Aymeric asked with a bleak kind of hope.

Aza laughed in his face for that and bent down to pick up one of the horns, “Bald-Ears is like a child, with his silly hopes. No. It will not give up. It is waiting for us somewhere.”

Aymeric sighed in resignation.

Aza whistled for Rations as he straightened up with the horn, and when his Chocobo deigned to grace him with her presence, he strapped his spoils over her back. She had a saddle, though it was seldom used, and her back carried his entire life. His bedroll, his clothes, his supplies, his various weapons, his little knickknacks that he carried with him everywhere… Rations was kind enough to carry it for him, and so he never burdened her with his weight unless it was vital. Walking was nice enough, anyways.

“I hope that isn’t too much for you, darling,” he asked Rations in his native tongue, finding some relief in speaking an actual _proper_ language, instead of the clunky, ugly sounds of Eorzean Common, “Nothing rubbing? Nothing pressing uncomfortably?”

 _“Kweh!_ ” Rations nipped at his ear with affection, and he laughed, burying his fingers into the feathers under her jaw, giving them a grateful scratch, “ _Chhrrrrr…_ ”

“I’ll get you a nice rabbit to eat,” Aza promised, “And a Gyshal green. These lands have them in wheelbarrows, so this village Em told us about should have one. Is that good?”

_“Wark!”_

Aza smiled, though he stopped when he noticed Aymeric staring at him with a strange intensity, “What?”

Aymeric blinked and quickly looked away, “Nothing. Simply… you’re not what I expected.”

“Hmm,” Aza eyed him, finding his smile curl into a smirk that flashed his sharp fangs, “You expected more Cat than Man, yes?”

Aymeric, to his credit, did not deny it. He nodded, glancing back at him with some embarrassment, “I have never seen a Bea- ah, _Miqo’te_ , before. The stories, that is, what we are told… some describe you as lions who walk on their hindlegs, that you could run like beasts but speak like men. Clearly, those were just tales…”

Either Aymeric was being kind, or his parents told him nicer stories, Aza mused. He knew all about the _stories_ the Bald-Ears spoke about his people. They normally described them as a lusty, thieving race who were no better than the common beast and about as intelligent too. _Or_ describing them as a conniving, greedy race that could rob you with a smile and a silver tongue. Aza had lost count of how many villages he had been forcibly told to leave simply because something has gone missing or someone claimed he had leered perversely at them. It was easier just to leave than fight the injustice.

“I am sorry for disappointing. As you see, Miqo’te just man with ears and tail.” Aza said blandly, unhooking his helmet from his belt. He slipped it back on, feeling a lot more comfortable with the metal hiding his face from the world. Its warmth pressed against his cheeks, “Now then. We should walk. Walk before Vargr catches us with clothes down in ground.”

Aymeric’s briefly puzzled expression told Aza his attempt at the idiom fell flat. Oh well.

“Ah, yes…” Aymeric said slowly, glancing over at the line of knights. He looked reluctant to leave, but after a moment he went to shoulder the pack he had salvaged from the mess. After Aza’s urging, he had reluctantly gathered what surviving food supplies and the like he could gather, expressing distaste in ‘robbing’ his dead party. Bald-Ears wouldn’t survive more than a week in the Wastes, with that kind of thinking.

Aza gave Rations a brief pat on her shoulder while watching Aymeric. He was very calm, in that distant, detached way people were when they went away inside. Aza understood the feeling well, but he knew that numbness didn’t last and at some point Aymeric was going to buckle. Hopefully it will be when they are in the safety of this ‘House Borel’. Aza had the emotional empathy of a bristling hedgehog and was afraid he’d do more harm than good for the man’s mental state.

But first, they needed to survive this wood. It was well-past noon now, and on foot they wouldn’t exit it before night fell. Aza was fine surviving in here at night, but Aymeric… hm, he may have to be _cautious_ , no matter how fun hunting a Vargr and their pets and night would be.

“This is going to go terribly wrong, I can feel it,” Aza muttered.

* * *

Aymeric found it oddly jarring to be walking back home.

He came to this realisation about ten minutes into the journey. His party was out of sight then, and Aymeric realised he was now alone with an odd companion with an even odder Chocobo. The Willowed Woods was bustling with life, the loose stones crunched under his boots, and ‘Thogun’ jingled and clinked and thumped with every step, its back piled high with what looked like the entirety of Aza’s worldly possessions.

Which they probably were. Miqo’te were nomadic, if he recalled, though they tended to roam the Wastes rather than Eorzea. They were reclusive and shunned society, and many a tale spoke about how they would ambush innocent travellers on the road and trick them or rob them of their possessions. The Halonic Church branded them as heretics from birth, filled with sins of lust of greed, and Aymeric knew they were unofficially ‘banned’ from ever setting foot into Ishgard itself.

Which… would make things awkward if Aza accompanied him there, but Aymeric would burn that bridge when they got to it.

The other thing was though, was that those tales were _wrong_.

Oh, Aymeric _knew_ that, rationally. Miqo’te were a people much like Elezens, just with an alien culture they did not understand and living in a harsh, unyielding land. But after hearing so many stories, so many anecdotal tales of what deviant little creatures these queer ‘Beastmen’ were, Aymeric found himself consistently surprised at how _decent_ Aza was – and how Elezen he looked.

When Aza had removed his helmet after making the deal with him, Aymeric had been startled to see the handsome face underneath the snarling mask. The Miqo’te’s hair had been a dark blond and thick and shiny, tied back into it loose braid with half-curled, wild bangs framing his angular face. His eyes were almond shaped, framed with thick, dark eyelashes that gave him an almost provocative look, his golden eyes cutting in their intensity when focused. His ears were furred and pointed, the insides a soft, velvety pink, and they _moved_ , often and well, like an attentive cat’s.

He was handsome and beautiful, not bestial or ugly like the stories said. As they walked side by side, he couldn’t help but take peeks at Aza’s covered face, taking in the sleek lines of his masterfully crafted helmet. Why did he hide such beauty behind that intimidating mask? Was it to keep people at bay? Aymeric had heard troubling stories of what corrupted knights did to pretty things that were arrested for ‘crimes’… and from he had heard, just being a Miqo’te at the wrong place at the wrong time was a crime all on its own.

“Is there something on my face?” Aza asked abruptly, almost making Aymeric jump.

“No, nothing, I… was simply admiring your helmet,” Aymeric admitted, “The craftsmanship is amazing.”

Aza’s yellow eyes stared at him through the thin slits of his visor. It made Aymeric feel like he was being stared down by that King Behemoth all over again, “Hmm. Is that so? Then, you should know friend made this mask. He is called ‘Felyx’.”

“Fel-ex?”

Aza nodded, “He is good at crafting. Better than some Bald-Ears. Can make steel that will never break, never bend. He is that good. But Bald-Ears turn their nose up, once they hear he made it. Beastman steel is bad, to _Ishgardian_ steel, they say. Then they die because their armour so brittle, it snaps! Hah, that is karma punishing them for such thinking.”

Aymeric felt a bit uncomfortable with this conversation because… “Ishgardian steel is considered the best in Eorzea...”

“Yes, best in _Eorzea_. But Wastes not Eorzea. Wastes is someplace else, and it make us harsher and stronger than soft Bald-Ears,” Aza snapped, abruptly sounding annoyed, “Next you say you are best at building, or best at farming, hunting, fighting… we know. You say this all the time. Beastmen nothing more than savages running in dirt, with Cow skulls strapped to head. I know. That is all Bald-Ears say every time ‘best at’ is brought up.”

Well, Aymeric _definitely_ touched a nerve there. He was too stunned to speak, worried about putting his foot in it even more.

Aza let out a sharp exhale, looking away from him. An awkward silence fell between them, but before Aymeric mustered the courage to apologise the Miqo’te spoke; “I am sorry. I get annoyed at those who look down on me.”

“I didn’t intend that,” Aymeric said quickly, “I apologise for any offence I caused.”

Aza was quiet for a moment. He almost looked like he wasn’t sure what to make of Aymeric’s apology.

“Well. It is fine,” Aza said a bit awkwardly, “You are… you have been good. This is why I help you.”

“It is?”

“Ah, little lie. I help at first because you needed it,” Aza admitted, “It is not good, to leave someone hurt and wounded when you can help. But then, you speak to me as if I am a person. You are kind. This is nice.”

“Also, the favour,” Aymeric added wryly, “I offered you that too.”

“Yes. The favour is good too,” Aza said, and then with a tinge of anxiousness, “You will keep that, yes? You will give me anything?”

“Anything.”

“Then you will sit on your throne,” Aza said simply, as if the matter was a done deal already, “No matter how many Vargr sit in your path. I will kill them all. It is truth.”

“Hopefully it is just the one,” Aymeric said, “After the river, it would be harder for non-Ishgardians to lie in wait to ambush me. This will be the only assassin, I would think.”

“Hah! Shows what little Em knows,” Aza laughed, “It is easy to get into Ishgard lands. Just no point. Most stay with tribes in Wastes. Easier. Many too afraid to leave same- no, familiar lands, yes? Yes.”

“Except for you,” Aymeric asked pointedly, genuinely curious why a Wasteland Miqo’te was roaming about Willowed Woods, almost a month’s walk from the Wastes, “You are…?”

“I adventure,” Aza said bluntly, “Is that the word? I wish to see new things. I wish to experience new things. I wish to find and live and… well, I do not belong in the Wastes. I am of the Wastes, but I am not from them. So, I adventure, and walk, and it is a good life, but hard.”

A traveller gripped with wanderlust? Aymeric thought the notion of it romantic, though he knew it was probably a difficult, lonely life. Aza seemed to not mind it though, and he had his Chocobo to accompany him. Still, he wondered if Ishgard had soured him on the concept of it… he sounded so angry and bitter whenever they spoke about his experiences with Elezens. Aymeric knew better than to ask, just to sate his curiosity, so he swallowed the burning questions down.

“You-”

“Quiet,” Aza abruptly snapped, drawing to a halt. Aymeric and Thogun stopped too, the Chocobo restlessly clawing at the ground with its large, wickedly sharp talons. A wind picked up, making the leaves rustle and old bark groan and creak… but the noise of wildlife was gone, and Aymeric found his pulse spike at the thought of another attack so soon, letting his suddenly sweaty hand drop down to the hilt of his sword. He kept thinking about the Behemoth lumbering out of the woods, panting and snarling and looming like a mountain over him, and could feel a tremble come over him at the memory.

He squeezed the sword hilt so tight his fingers hurt, and distantly, he heard heavy, beating wings.

Aza let out a sharp, aggressive noise that sounded like a curse, his hand darting up-

Something crashed through the canopy above like a comet. Aymeric darted back several steps, blade in hand but not remembering drawing it, Aza at his side with his greatsword half-unlocked from its sheath, his body leaning forwards in preparation of a charge.

“ _Zzzzzzzzzkkkkkkkrrrrrrrrrr~”_ The comet hissed, a cloud of dust and falling leaves obscuring it from view. Then – a powerful gust of wind that half-blinded Aymeric howled around them, and past the stinging grit, Aymeric saw brilliant red wings, tipped with flickering, burning aether spread as much as they could in the narrow path, molten gold eyes glowering down at them from a serpentine head that almost reached the broken canopy above.

“Oh,” Aza let out a low, exhausted sigh, “ _Bennu_.”

Aymeric just stared at the towering, monstrous _Zu_ that was _on fire_. It was just as large as the King Behemoth, if not bigger, with a cruel, serrated beak that looked like it could gobble Aymeric up in one, crushing snap. Smoke streamed out of its mouth, and the air shimmered around it, hot and choking and stinking of ash. A Zu. On fire. A magical Zu that is on fire.

Okay, he thought blankly, this may as well just happen.

Uncaring of Aymeric’s dull shock, the ‘Bennu’ screamed and lunged at them with a throat aglow with white-hot flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who's had to speak in a language I only have moderate skill in for extended period of times, it gives you a KILLER HEADACHE, esp when speaking to someone fluent in it bc they will use slang or abbreviations or idioms and you're there trying to be as clear as possible and PAINFULLY aware that you're coming across as stiff and clunky but understandable at least and it's so much effort and thinking and uughfjjsjfk
> 
> So, yes, I'm having fun portraying this with Aza and Aym. Aza'll become smoother with the language since he'll predominantly be speaking Eorzean throughout most of this fic, stumbling with more complicated words and idioms, but yeah, just wanted to give you a heads up that Aza will sound very clunky when talking to Aymeric for several chapters. 
> 
> In other news it's three chapters and Aym is already done. I'm sorry Aym (I'm not sorry). 
> 
> Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed! The poll is still live so vote if you haven't already~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you angry?” Aza finally asked.
> 
> “Yes,” Aymeric said tightly, “I am. You tackled me into a bush.”
> 
> “Safety,” Aza repeated, “The Bennu… it would have squashed you, yes? Yes. It landed where you were. So, I bounced you. You are fine. Do not be a baby about it.”
> 
>  _A baby!?_ Aymeric thought indignantly, briefly speechless.

 

The fight began with Aza shoulder-tackling Aymeric into a bush.

It was ungraceful, abrupt and very painful. Aza had the momentum of a charging Wisent and was just as solid, despite his diminutive size, so Aymeric, embarrassingly, went _flying_. With a yelp, he tumbled right off the merchant’s road and into a half-controlled roll right into a thorny, grasping _bramble patch_ squatting in the embankment, just as something smashed into where Aymeric had _just been_. Grasping, brittle branches tangled around him, and it was a Halone-blessed _miracle_ he didn’t put an eye out as he flailed and wrestled himself free from the thorny bramble, clumsily using his sword to hack his way free when they proved to be too stubborn.  

And not a moment too soon. As the sounds of furious battle waged behind him, a jet of white-hot plasma shot right over his head to splatter over a nearby tree. Like oil over a heretic, the tree instantly ignited, throwing a rush of burning red embers all over him – and the bone-dry brambles around him. With sharp crackles and pops, the bush _caught_.

Aymeric very quickly found himself out of the bush before the flames could catch _him_ , scrambling red-faced and panting back onto the road to see –

Carnage.

As Aymeric fought his stubborn enemy The Bush, Aza had been busy with the Fiery Zu. The road had been melted into slag in some part, the trees around were aflame and roaring, a queer, pure white fire that twisted and leapt high in the canopy above. The entire forest around them sounded like it was cracking apart, and amidst the inferno in the making, the Zu was crouched in the middle of the half-melted road, resting on its wings like some feathery Wyvern, a deep gouge raked over its eye and cruel beak. Aza stood exactly where he had body-checked Aymeric, his sword almost lazily held up between him and his foe. A thin layer of soot covered him, and the edges of his chainmail coat looked a bit singed, but otherwise, he appeared untouched.

The Fiery Zu snapped its beak at him and hissed threateningly but didn’t approach.

Aza yelled at the beast, that hissing-snarling language that was almost lost in the howls of the fire around them. The flames cast ominous shadows and lights across his Behemoth mask, making it seem almost alive as he jerked his blade in a threatening manner, and there, Aymeric could see a Behemoth carved down the length of the blade, its eye bright red as it reflected the inferno. Aza looked like some demented creature straight out of the stories of the Primals, and for a moment Aymeric wasn’t sure who he was afraid of more: the mythical, fiery Zu, or this Beastman.

_“KWEH!”_

Aymeric yelped – _again_ – when a powerful beak clamped down hard on the back of his chainmail jerkin, almost hauling him entirely off the ground. Thogun, Aza’s monstrously huge Chocobo, was dragging him away from the flames – and there was nothing Aymeric could do to stop it. He cursed, trying to plant his feet, but either Thogun was half-Zu itself or Wasteland Chocobos were just _that strong_ , but the Chocobo just yanked at him and pulled him _entirely off the ground_ like he was some kitten in its mother’s mouth.

“Put me down-!” Aymeric spluttered, too stunned to really put up much of a fight as Thogun began to half-trot away with him in tow. Occasionally his feet would hit the ground, and he’d try to plant them, or twist away or _something_ – but Thogun would just jerk him up again and Aymeric’s feet would uselessly kick against thin air. The chainmail cut hard under his armpits, the collar of his breastplate dangerously close to his throat, clenching his sword so tight his fingers were numb – but they were running away. Or rather, Thogun was forcing a retreat Aymeric had no say in entirely.

It was, quite frankly, _humiliating_.

The dry heat and crackling roar of fire dwindled away into the distant screeches and scream of the Zu. Thogun had dived right off the merchant road once the flames were no longer an issue, plunging deep into the primal, green wood, skipping over mossy logs and sucking swamp, weaving and bullying its way through narrow animal tracks. Aymeric could feel Thogun’s hot breath snorting over his hair, the Chocobo flagging once they were well and deep into the woods, so deep that it became as dim as twilight and silent as the grave.

They eventually stopped in a tiny clearing. A thick brook was bubbling out of a clear spring, the air refreshingly cool with only a thin sliver of sunlight castling dappling, glittering patterns over the water’s surface. Thogun stopped, snorting loudly as it scratched at the thick, mossy ground before – unceremoniously dumping Aymeric on his rump.

 _“Oof_!” Aymeric felt the wind driven out of him, not expecting the rough drop, but quickly scrambled to his feet, red-faced and burning with mortification. He whirled on the Chocobo, staring at it with speechless anger. Thogun just stared back, with its large, dark eyes, chipped, sharp looking beak – and utterly unimpressed expression.

“You- _why did you do that_?” Aymeric demanded, only vaguely aware he was yelling at a Chocobo as if expecting an answer, “I could have helped-”

“Kweh.”

“I _could-_ ”

“Kweh.”

“I-”

“ _Kweh_.”

Aymeric snapped his mouth shut, narrowing his eyes at the Chocobo. Thogun was preening at a stubby wing, openly ignoring him, and pulled out a sooty, half-singed feather. Its back was still piled high with Aza’s possessions, looking relatively untouched from the fiery carnage, the Behemoth horns still strapped tight to its saddle. Aymeric was grudgingly impressed that it managed to carry him in its beak whilst toting that weight about as well.

 “I could have fought,” he muttered under his breath, reluctantly sheathing his blade. He felt childishly angry, and annoyed, and a bunch of other things, and turned away from Thogun to glare at the brook. Useless, something in him muttered. When the King Behemoth attacked, he didn’t even have the chance to pull his sword and lay like a useless lump as his loyal knights and servants died for him. Now, when this ‘Bennu’ attacked, he was carted away like he was a young, unbloodied squire. The indignity of it _burned_.

He may not be on Estinien’s level, but Aymeric was not _useless_ in battle. Whatever Aza may believe about ‘soft Bald-Ears’, he wouldn’t have been hindrance. What if now Aza was struggling, fending off this beast on his behalf? All for a vague, poorly-worded promise of a repaid favour? Aymeric felt queasy at the thought, and he paced agitatedly up and down the brook. He would’ve attempted to run back, but he had no doubt Thogun would stop him, and anyway he had no idea where he was. They made so many twists and turns in the wood…

He had no idea how long he prowled in the small clearing, growing more and more worried. Thogun seemed calm, having squatted by the edge of the brook and taking a long drink from the fresh water. Aymeric was parched himself, but he was too worried to drink. Cicadas were chirping around them, along with a bird, the murmuring of the brook… but no screams, no beastly noises, no burning flames.

Just as Aymeric resolved to go back, damn getting lost in the woods and Aza’s cursed Chocobo, the noise of cracking twigs and rustling leaves drew him to a sharp halt. Thogun lifted its head, letting out a trilling cheap and-

Aza staggered into the tiny clearing, sooty and singed and stinking of ash and burned hair, huffing and puffing like he’d just ran a marathon.

“So far!” the Miqo’te wheezed, tearing his helmet off. His face was ruddy with exertion, his hair plastered to his head from sweat, his braid tumbling undone so it sat in a wild tangle about his shoulders – but he was smiling, his yellow eyes bright with amusement and satisfaction, “You ran whole forest! Why?”

“Your damned Chocobo took us here,” Aymeric said curtly, feeling a mixture of relief and annoyance – something he was well-accustomed to, being a close friend to Estinien, “Why did it carry me off? I could have helped you.”

“Safety,” Aza said, wiping a gloved hand over his sweaty brow and smearing dark ash over it. He didn’t seem to care, tossing his helmet carelessly on the floor. It made a soft _thmpt_ noise as it hit the loamy ground, and Aza planted his hands on his hips, looking at Aymeric, then Thogun, then back at Aymeric.

“Are you angry?” Aza finally asked.

“Yes,” Aymeric said tightly, “I am. You tackled me into a _bush_.”

“Safety,” Aza repeated, “The Bennu… it would have squashed you, yes? Yes. It landed where you were. So, I bounced you. You are fine. Do not be a baby about it.”

 _A baby!?_ Aymeric thought indignantly, briefly speechless. He quickly found his voice, “I concede that, then,” he said tightly, “But your Chocobo, why did it-”

“She.”

“Why did _she_ carry me off? I was in no danger-”

“Em,” Aza was no longer smiling, “You _were_ in danger. The Vargr, the beasts, they are not the beasts of Eorzea, yes? They are of the Wastes.”

“It was a Zu, albeit a magical one, I will admit,” Aymeric said, “I have fought those before-”

“That was a Bennu,” Aza corrected, “They are – the word… _gwisg_. Fire Bird. Never die. Their down gives life. You know what I am saying? They are children of those. Not mature. Not quite… the Fire Bird. But they are strong. For soft Bald-Ear who has only fought basic Monsters in Eorzea… you would die. Then Em would be a very short-lived king, yes? Then Aza would never get his favour.”

Aymeric turned away from him and said nothing in response. He knew he was being stubborn and petty, but the humiliation of it burned and he was… frightened. He had thought the Behemoth would be it. He could stand to face another Behemoth. But apparently the offspring of Phoenixes were in this Vargr’s repertoire because _why not_ , apparently. He thought Phoenixes were all _extinct_. The Allagans had hunted them to extinction, or so the stories went…

His anger tapered away as he stared into the brook. He heard movement behind him, Aza, stomping over the soft, loamy ground, speaking in that hissing-purring language to his Chocobo. His mind turned away from the indignity of his humiliating forced-retreat, to the question of who would even _hire_ this Vargr. Whoever did so would have had to know they even existed which… was odd. The tales of the Wastes were mostly considered fantastical, with everyone agreeing that the Beastmen who lived out there did so in roving bands, fighting and squabbling over dwindling resources. They were primitives at worst, and sellswords at best, not special enough to go ranging that far to hire an assassin when there were so many other methods closer to home.

So it meant it had to be someone from the Vigils situated on the Allagan Wall. They were maintained the manned by the High Houses, predominantly House Fortemps and House Durendaire, so anyone who regularly went to those areas, say, the Lord of the House inspecting those Vigils, would _know_ of a Vargr’s existence, and the value they’d have as a potential, unattributable assassin. After all, how can you declare foul play when someone met an unlucky end by a hungry Behemoth? It was just nature, an act of the Gods, _ill-luck_. Less suspicious than him being stabbed in his sleep in the middle of the night. Beasts weren’t like to confess assassinations either.

“If Em is wondering,” Aza spoke up suddenly, grunting as he pulled a wooden chest off from Thogun’s back, setting it on the floor, “The Bennu is alive. It flew away and its magic flames died. Forest will not burn down now. Good for us, yes? But the Bennu is gone. Still alive. Back to its Vargr, most like.”

“…” Aymeric turned away from the brook and his suspicions to Aza, watching as the Miqo’te flipped the chest open, “Will it be back soon?”

“Not today,” Aza said confidently, pulling out a thick, oiled tarp. He tossed it carelessly onto the floor, then brought out odd looking ropes that stretched as he pulled them, both ends tipped with spiked, curved hooks. He tossed those onto the tarp, then dug around some more into the chest, “I broke Bennu’s beak. Vargr is cautious. We know that. Still has not shown self. Maybe tomorrow it will show itself with some plan. Then we can kill Vargr and our journey to your home will be safe.”

It sounded easy when Aza told it like that, Aymeric thought wryly. Still, he started to feel a bit guilty, and shame-faced when he realised he had been so tied up in his frustration he hadn’t even inquired about the battle or Aza’s health. Gods, this whole situation was turning him into a self-centred pig, “I forgot to ask… are you well? You weren’t hurt, were you?”

Aza paused, looking up from where he was elbow deep in the wooden chest, “Hurt? Is Em saying joke?”

“I’m aware that, well, you were left alone, and you say the Bennu is dangerous…”

“Hah, to normal men. Not me,” Aza laughed in a low, husky chuckle. He pulled out two thick stakes and threw those onto the floor. With that he flipped the wooden chest shut and looked up at the thick canopy above, “I am fine. Though… I am _hungry_. Is Em hungry?”

As if summoned by Aza’s words, Aymeric’s stomach grumbled. The last thing he ate had been oatmeal cakes at dawn, as he didn’t have much of an appetite after waking. His body was hating him for it now, and he was startled to find himself ravenous. It seemed consecutive near-death experiences worked up an appetite.

“A little,” he admitted.

“Little, he says,” Aza scoffed, “I heard that growl. Em is starving. Well, Em can work for it. Make fire, will you?”

There was some novelty in being ordered around like he was a common squire, but Aymeric found relief in working at a task instead of standing around like a useless lump. He cleared a small area for a campfire, putting rocks down to contain the flames before gathering wood. It was more difficult than it seemed – this close to the brook, the dead wood was mildly damp or not conductive to good fire. Still, Aymeric decided to use the challenge as a distraction.

By the time Aymeric got a good cookfire going, Aza had finished his own task. He had pulled the oiled tarp between two thick trees, using the strange hooked, stretch rope to have it pulled taut in a near triangle shape, sloping enough so that if it rained, the water would run off instead of gathering in the middle. Aza had even partially dug into the earth, clearing a spot wide enough for two people to lie side by side underneath the tarp, and digging a tiny little channel around it, so that any water running off would gather in there and away. It was, quite frankly, a clever set up, except…

“Are you expecting rain?” Aymeric asked from where he was squatted before the fire.

“Yes,” Aza said bluntly. “It will rain tonight. This I know.”

The Miqo’te didn’t elaborate though. He admired his work instead, looking it over with a critical eye before turning back to Thogun. He spoke to her, moving over and beginning to remove the rest of his belongings. There was a surprising amount, and once Thogun was free of her burden, she flapped her wings, gave a happy chirp and… promptly sprawled sideways onto the cool, loamy ground, stretching her legs and neck out.

Aza tutted, but let her be. He started digging into one of the sacks he pulled off his Chocobo’s back.

Aymeric dropped his gaze to the fire, watching the orange and red flames dance and snap. The heat from it was dry, and he became aware of how parched he was, a faint headache throbbing between his temples. He had drank little, and sweated much today, and the day was sweltering hot and humid. He pushed himself to his feet, tugging off the stiff gloves from his hand as he moved to the brook. The water was clear, running over smooth grey stones and moss-covered rocks, and when he ran his bare fingers through it, it was cool and refreshing.

He dug into his pack, taking out the water bottle and promptly filled it up in the brook. He stared down into the neck of the bottle one it was filled, seeing the glitter of water in its dark depths, wondering…

They would have to stay the night in the Willowed Woods. Aza seemed unconcerned, and if he regularly fought off the likes of King Behemoths and Bennu then what did he have to be frightened of? They were only stories, anyway. The Leshens and Werewolves and Fiends. Mayhaps those cries from last night were the Behemoth and Bennu, chained down within these woods and shrieking to be free.

He swirled the water in the bottle for a moment before chugging it. The cool water was a relief on his dry throat, and he drained the entire bottle and had to refill it again. It made his stomach slosh uncomfortably, but Gods, he had needed that.

“Maybe Em can bathe, while he plays in the water,” Aza called over to him, and Aymeric looked over his shoulder to see the Miqo’te setting up a cooking apparatus over the fire, a sack presumably filled with food beside him, “I will make food.”

“Is that your way of saying I smell?”

“Yes,” Aza said bluntly, but he was smiling good-naturedly, “Smell of sweat. Bald-Ears no good in heat?”

“Terrible,” Aymeric admitted, “Ishgard is a cold land.”

“Too cold,” Aza grumbled, looking away from him, “Winter here is unforgiving. I will give Bald-Ears that: you are good at living in cold places.”

Well, at least Aza admitted ‘Bald-Ears’ weren’t terrible at everything, Aymeric thought wryly. Still, he did feel grimy and disgusting. The quilted chainmail had been a terrible idea, he realised. While it looked smart when he had set off, now it was coated in dried blood, ash and dirt, with bits of thorns and twigs stuck between the mail’s ringlets. He could also smell the sweat, brought to his attention by Aza, so he picked up his pack and moved further up the brook to the spring.

It hit him how bizarre this was, then. Was it only an hour before that he had stared down a rearing creature straight from children stories? Was it only this morning that forty two of his loyal knights and servants met their end by the fang and claws of a King Behemoth? Was it only _yesterday_ that he had argued with his foster father, jested with Estinien, and rode from all he had ever known into this nightmare? It felt like a lifetime ago.

He stared into the spring. Its depths were dark, and Aymeric saw the darting of a silver-scaled fish flit away amongst the rocks. He slowly sat down at its bank and focused on unbuckling the greaves from his boots. His mind kept turning to the Behemoth, to the Bennu, to Estinien waving him goodbye, to Captain Asette lying broken on the floor, when only this morning she had teased him about his bed hair. Was it only this morning? Had she really died that recently?

He couldn’t identify the feeling inside of him as he thought of this. He tugged the greaves off, set them on the bank and stared at his boots.

For a moment his throat was painfully tight, and so were his ribs. Asette had been eyeing up Visant’s son because she had liked how he looked on the back of a Chocobo. She said when she returned, she was going to ask Visant his blessing for her to pursue him. That wouldn’t happen now.

Knight Oseux had been learning how to read. He was a fine knight, but he enjoyed learning more. Lord Borel said he would sponsor him to enter one of the universities in Ishgard so long as he showed good progress in his reading and writing by winter. That wouldn’t happen now.

Knight Elmie had recently married – strange, as it was custom to marry in the Spring, just after the first thaw, rather than in the Summer, before the Winter. But they had coupled outside of marriage, so it had been a hasty thing, but Aymeric recalled how flushed with pride he had been when he said that he would have a child by winter, how he would teach them how to be a knight like himself. That wouldn’t happen now.

So many things wouldn’t happen now. Aymeric thought of all those lost futures, all because of some Fury-damned bastard who craved the throne so much he would set an indiscriminate beast on innocent men and women. Forty-two futures – so his pathetic one could continue.

Not a worthy price, he thought blankly, not worthy at all.

“Em?” Aza called over to him, “Have you forgotten how to untie boots? Why are you just staring?”

Aymeric stirred out of his dark thoughts, taking a deep breath past the pressure crushing down on his ribs, swallowing the lump in his throat. Not now, he told himself fiercely, ignoring the stinging in his eyes as he started unlacing his boots. He needed to be firm and unyielding as sturdy oak. A Borel always had to be a reliable pillar of support, even in the bleakest of times.

He yanked off his boot, clenching his fingers into its hard leather.

And he will be _reliable_. A reliable thorn in this Vargr and his master’s side, that is. Forty-two lives paid for this life, and Aymeric wasn’t going to pay anymore for it – not Aza’s and definitely not _his_.

After all _spite_  was just as powerful as duty, when it came to motivation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so, I wrote out the Bennu fight scene several times and... I hated it. I hated it so much. I got bored and frustrated with it so I cut it, I'm sorry. So have some Aymeric angst. I guess you can already see the theme and plot line this is gonna follow ha... hahaha... 
> 
> will they ever leave this woods? who knows... 
> 
> please comment/kudos if you enjoyed!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hmph,” Aza sniffed at him, “You know nothing, Em.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda fuck with Heavensward here as a warning. WORLD BUILDING AHEAD!!!

Aza made stew.

It was a bland stew, he’d admit. He just dropped a half-frozen lamb shank into the pot with the last of his vegetables and no seasoning. He’d been planning on reaching the village that sat on the river past here to resupply, but this _detour_ pushed those plans into the fire. The stew would feed them for now and later tonight, but Aza would have to go foraging in the morning if they wanted anything more than dried apple chips.  

He tapped his metal spoon on the edge of the stew pot and balanced it across, letting his gaze wander over to his problem project. Aymeric was in the spring, his back to him, but Aza could see the blossoming bruises spread across his ribcage and lower back. He had surprisingly broad shoulders for a Bald-Ear, his back toned with firm musculature and arms strong with well-defined biceps, a powerful body that spoke of many hours of hard, back-breaking work. Either he trained with the blade every day hacking at unyielding wooden targets, or he did some honest manual labour. Considering the dark tan on Aymeric’s face and his shoulders and arms, lightly dusted with freckles from exposure to the sun, and hands that were rough with callouses, Aza was leaning towards the latter.

Curious. An honest working noble.

It made a very well put together man, though, Aza could admit that. For a Bald-Ear Aymeric was certainly easy on the eyes. Unfairly handsome with very pretty eyes, a well-proportioned body that carried a deep strength… if only he was anyone else, Aza would’ve been coaxing him into his bedroll by sundown. Aza made a point not to mix business and pleasure, because it made things so terribly _thorny_ if contracts or agreements broke down because of lies or backstabbing or a myriad of other reasons.

Not that Aza intended to do any backstabbing here. Whilst he was aware that ransoming a King, or Prince, or whatever he was, would make him a very rich man… it was riskier. This? This had the potential to be easy gains. He’ll kill this Vargr, and he’ll kill whatever and _whoever_ gets in their way until Aymeric sat on that ugly throne in that eyesore of a city… and then Aza would have his favour.

His _priceless_ favour.

Aza smiled at the thought, picked up the spoon, and stirred the pot anew.

* * *

Aymeric felt more settled once he finished bathing. He washed away the sweat and grime in the clear spring and got changed into lighter gear, instead of the chainmail. He wore his hunting garments, the deerskin jerkin with the leather guard over one shoulder and his left chest, and loose, comfortable breeches with his solid leather boots. It felt less constricting and cumbersome than the dirty, blood-splattered chainmail and steel breastplate that had been weighing him down for the entire day.

He took the time to get the worst of the mess off his chainmail and left the armour laid out on the one rock that had sunlight shyly peering down on it through the gap in the tree canopy to dry off. Refreshed, cleaned and more clearheaded, Aymeric headed back to the cookfire, where Aza was idly stirring a stew pot set over it.

“I hope you like lamb,” Aza said when he drew near, “It is all we have for today.”

“I’d eat anything at this point,” Aymeric muttered, his stomach a gnawing pit of hunger. He pushed at a mossy log, closer to the fire, and sat on it, watching Aza stir the pot, the Miqo’te looking content to just sit in silence. The forest was alive around them – chirping birds, cicadas, buzzing insects… even the distant cry of a fox. The air was lush with damp soil and fresh leaves, and Aymeric found the knot of tension clenching in his belly slowly ease away as he basked in it. The forest was primal and ancient and terrifying, but sitting here, sharing a fire with his own equally terrifying companion, was oddly comforting.

“A question,” Aza spoke up suddenly, “What is a maybe King doing in farmland? Princes… they stay in the capital, yes? Why are you different?”

Aymeric stirred out of his blank staring of the stew pot, blinking slowly at Aza as the question sunk in. Huh. He finally asked that question, “Because I’m King by nomination.”

Aza scrunched his nose, “What? Nomin… use simple words.”

“The previous king named me his heir,” Aymeric sighed, “He legitimised my birth. That is, made me his legal heir, even though I am… base born. It can only be done so by royal decree.”

“Base born?” Aza parroted, “What does that even mean? Born is born, yes?”

“Yes, but…” Aymeric hesitated, not sure if he wanted to get into the subject with the Miqo’te. If one believed rumours, all Beastmen were bastards since they never married and apparently bred with different partners. It wasn’t uncommon for beastmen to have numerous half-siblings and not care one whit about it. Would Aza even understand the issue, if he came from such a culture?

“In Ishgard,” he began slowly, “Tracing your parentage is very important – especially for the Royal Family. They- I mean, _we_ can trace our bloodline all the way to King Thordan the First, son of Saint Shiva and the Holy Dragon, which is a requirement to sit on the throne. But the blood needs to remain pure and noble, so Thordan’s lineage can only be coupled with those of the High Houses, to ensure… purity.”

“Inbreeding,” Aza said with a touch of scorn to his tone, “I hear that sister-brother breeding is practised.”

“That was almost a thousand years ago. Not anymore,” Aymeric said uncomfortably. He recalled being disturbed when learning about _that_ chapter in his family’s history. It was a few generations after King Thordan’s death, and his great-grandson, Thordan II, decided to have sister and brother marry to ensure that their holy blood was not diluted by _mortal stock_. That practice was put to an end after three hundred years of inbreeding threatened to extinguish the bloodline due to a dangerous rise in miscarriages and, if one believed the tales, deformed babes who died hours after birth, twisted and covered in leathery scales with stubby lizard tails and wings. Punishment by the Fury, for the Royal Family’s incestuous ways, the Church declared. So, the Royal line was ordered to breed with the High Houses to recover what was almost lost. That dark and early period of his bloodline’s history was always used as an excuse when Kings and Queens exhibited… odd… behaviours. The inbred blood was considered a catalyst for madness, and Thordan IV, the product of five generations of sister-brother inbreeding, was the maddest of them all.

But no one spoke of Thordan IV. If Aymeric recalled correctly, most people referred to him as the Non-Existent King, due to how strict the Inquisitors were in confiscating any history books or arresting those who openly discussed his deeds and life. Aymeric only knew because Lord Borel thought it prudent that he knew everything about his lineage, the good and the bad, only to swear he would never breathe a word of it.

Aza was staring at him contemplatively, “What is this to do with ‘base born’?”

Aymeric shifted uncomfortably. This was an open secret. Everyone knew of The Bastard, King Thordan VII’s eternal shame, but it was never spoken about. In House Borel, the servants and guards and the workers kindly never mentioned Aymeric’s origins, treating him as if he was Lord and Lady Borel’s true born son and looking uncomfortable whenever the topic of his birth came up. It made Aymeric feel as if he was a shameful thing – a feeling that only worsened when he learned that King Thordan VII had ordered him to be drowned when he had been born, saved only by Lord Borel offering to foster the boy as his own, as far away from the capital as possible. Halone smiled on him then, by letting Thordan VII’s infamously hard heart show mercy that day.

That… Aymeric didn’t like to think on that.

“My- the woman who birthed me was not of the High Houses,” Aymeric said stiffly, “I was told she was a serving girl who caught the King’s eye. She could not say no and...”

He said no more, staring hard at the stew pot. He could feel the weight of Aza’s stare on him.

“… so, half of blood is inbred,” Aza said after a weighty pause, “And other half fresh. This is good for you. No inbred madness.”

Aymeric made a sharp noise that could have been a mirthless chuckle, “I suppose.”

“No Dragon too, hopefully,” Aza said idly, “We hear this in Wastes, of the Dragon in Ishgard’s Kings. Fresh blood should weaken that, yes?”

Aymeric _did_ chuckle at that, “Those are just stories, exaggerated by retellings. Saint Shiva coupled with the Holy Dragon… but that is just a title, I’m sure. A powerful knight of some sort. We wouldn’t look like men, if we were part dragon, would we? No, I’m sure those tales began from Thordan III’s, ah, pyromaniac tendencies.”

Aza looked doubtful, “But in the Wastes…”

“Stories,” Aymeric repeated, “Ishgard Kings are not dragons in disguise. Or at the very least, I know that _I_ am not a dragon.”

“How do you know?” Aza asked him stubbornly, “We have similar tales, of men with beasts inside them. They do not know until it claws itself free. Then they are not men. They are beasts. Only _then_ do they know. It may be same for you.”

 Aymeric was feeling a little disquieted now because such talk was skirting dangerously close to the unsavoury tales of Thordan IV, “There is no dragon.”

“Hmph,” Aza sniffed at him, “You know nothing, Em.”

The Miqo’te went back to the stew pot after that, cursing softly when he realised it was beginning to overboil. Aymeric tuned him out, frowning at the flames simmering low over burning red embers. There were so many stories of the Ishgard Kings being dragons – or carrying dragon blood – all considered blasphemous, unsavoury tales by the Inquisitors of Ishgard. But those tales had sunk their claws deep into the common perception of the Royal Family regardless. It was why they were expected to be powerful warriors, leaders and scholars, to exhibit the wisdom of those ancient, long extinct creatures alongside their inhuman fierceness. But even if such a thing _was_ true, surely a thousand years of breeding with other Elezens would have diluted the Dragon blood to a mere drop?

As he thought it over, he abruptly found himself remembering something from his youth – when he was twelve and Lady Borel still lived. He and Estinien had become close friends then, and they would frequently climb up the barn, ignoring the splinters in their fingers from the rough climb, and launch themselves into the hay bales below. Aymeric always found the brief feeling of weightlessness glorious – the moment where he leapt off, and for a moment felt as if he could fly. He had exulted in that feeling… though that game was quickly put to an end when Lady Borel witnessed him at it. They had been given a thorough tongue lashing, a few hard smacks on the rump and were forbidden to ever do anything like that again.

Estinien had become sullen for months after that. Aymeric had felt gutted.

But the feeling had faded with time. They jumped off tree branches into the river that ran by the estate instead, though it wasn’t the same, and soon Aymeric had just… stopped. Estinien continued, learned the secrets of the Dragoon and came the closest to flying an Elezen ever could. Aymeric had been horrifically jealous, but he locked that feeling up tight and refused to ever let it surface with his friend. His duty was to Lord Borel and being his legal heir, not leaping through the skies as a Dragoon (dragon), no matter how much he craved it.  

Aymeric looked up at the canopy above. He could see peeks of a cloudy sky past the leaves and was suddenly struck by a sharp sense of longing.

If he was a dragon, he was a sorry sort – one doomed to be bound to the earth forever.

* * *

The day passed by both quickly and at a crawl.

They ate the stew for lunch, bland but hearty, and then Aymeric tended to his longsword for lack of anything to do whilst Aza went to bathe. He tried to be respectful, but he still found his gaze wandering over to where the Miqo’te had shed his armour and revealed the heavily scarred body underneath.

Aza was bulky even without the armour. It fit his short, compact frame though, and Aymeric allowed himself exactly three seconds of shameless ogling before he forced his gaze away before he was caught. Aza had a lovely body, and Aymeric was known to be a deviant who enjoyed the body of men over women – but the Miqo’te was his protector and _technically_ in his employ. It would be ill of him to stare at him without his consent.

Still, at least Aymeric knew where the tail jutted out now. That mystery could now be laid to rest.

The day crawled by.

Aymeric oiled and whetted his blade. He got up and kicked dirt over the still smouldering embers of the cookfire. He walked the perimeter of their little camp, checking that everything was well. Aza bathed, washed his hair, his fur, and got changed back into his armour. The sun sunk low. Aza, eventually getting annoyed at his restless pacing, shoved twine into his hands and told him to wrap that around the perimeter of camp. Aymeric didn’t know why, but he was eager to keep his hands and mind busy, so he spent as long as he could marking out the perimeter of camp.

Aza just lounged, watching him all the while

Eventually Aymeric was done, and the last of the stew was scraped out of the stew pot for evening meal. The pot was cleaned, Aza piled his belongings close to where they were bedding down and laid out his bedroll. Aymeric did the same. At this point the sun had sunk low enough that the clearing, already dimly lit, was almost pitch black. Aza’s eyes would catch some ambient light, reflecting it and making his eyes appear as solid, golden discs. They startled him each time he saw them.

“You are jumpy,” Aza remarked once everything was set for the night, “Is Em scared of dark woods?”

“I am afraid of the man who wants to kill me roaming about here,” Aymeric said honestly. Compared to the humid warmth of the day, the night was almost chilly. There was a hint of ozone, and the wind that rustled between the white-mossed trees was cold. He shivered, casting a glance over their camp – even if he could only see vague, dark shapes. “Are we doing watches?”

“No,” Aza shifted, and from the sound of his rustling began unlacing his boots, “No point.”

“… these woods are filled with beasts.”

“And they will not come here,” Aza said confidently, “I sleep here many nights before. It is fine. The monsters… they fight each other, they hunt… but when they smell me, they know I am bigger predator. They will not touch us.”

Aza’s eyes were bright yellow in the dark, and Aymeric shivered from something that was not the chill.

Thogun had moved over to their bedrolls. It was a bit of a squeeze, but the Chocobo crammed itself in so that Aymeric and Aza would have to rest their upper bodies against is feathery bulk to stay underneath the tarp. Just as they managed to get themselves comfortable, boots off and clothes neatly folded to be in between them both – along with their weapons in easy reach – the first fat drops of rain started.

Which very rapidly became torrential.

“Summer rain,” Aymeric murmured, feeling very cosy in his current position. The night was chilly, but Thogun was warm and solid against his back, and Aza was close enough that the Miqo’te body heat was pressed against his side. Aymeric had to tuck his legs up a little so the end of his bedroll didn’t get wet, but this was fine. He was as comfortable as he was going to get, and he felt so exhausted he probably wouldn’t fallen asleep on solid, unyielding stone if it came to it.

“Like rain in Wastes,” Aza mumbled, watching the rain fall around them. The tarp thrummed from the force of it, but it did not leak. They were bone dry, even Thogun.

“The Wastes have rain?” Aymeric asked past a yawn, his eyes drooping shut. Even with the odd state of hypervigilance he was trapped in, the exhaustion pulled at him. From the moment he had woken up to Aza looming over him, he had been tense and… he was tired…

“When summer ends, the rains come,” Aza said, “They wash everything away. The Thunderbird comes. The land moves.”

“Thunderbird…?”

“Big bird, bigger than Bennu,” Aza’s voice changed slightly, its huskiness becoming soft and purring, his accent making his words lilt, “It brings the rains on its wings. Its wings are clouds, yes? Large, thundering clouds, dark, and its tail is the sky, and when it cries out, thunder roars. It brings rain and lightning and…”

Aymeric heard no more. Listening to Aza’s soothing voice, he drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dragons. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 
> 
> Coincidentally, have you guys seen this [amazing role reversal of Estinien and Aymeric](http://fair-fae.tumblr.com/post/175742783651/runescratch-i-started-doodling-a-role-swap-au-on)? It pretty good. 
> 
> Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is it ominous or not, that your journey is being plagued by such ill weather?” Estinien mused, “Halone must be teasing you, Aymeric.”

Aza stirred awake to a chilly, dimly lit morning.

The air was hazy with misty rain, droplets pattering audibly over the oiled tarp as a bird somewhere above chirped happily. He hummed quietly, carefully stretching his legs and trying not to jostle the weight pressing against his side. Aymeric had slid further down Rations’s bulk sometime during the night, curled up into a half-ball against him with his head resting on his shoulder. His hair tickled his jaw, and Aza’s was numb from the elbow down, but he didn’t mind it. Aymeric was warm.

It was just past dawn, he would wager. The sunlight hadn’t yet touched the clearing, the canopy of leaves above making it dark as night, but Aza’s eyes could see still. Granted, in shades of grey and white and silver, but better than any other race that roamed the land. The trees around them were dark silver, clustered like a physical wall around them, the brook burbling somewhere out of sight. Normally Aza would wake up and start getting ready but…

It was early, and cold, and Aymeric was still flat out asleep. Aza could allow another hour or two, he supposed. Aymeric needed all the rest he could get, considering the pace they were going to set for today. Aza wasn’t going to let them be ambushed in the forest a _third_ time, because at this point the Vargr probably knew it better than him and would be cleverer in his plan. No, Aza wanted to get out of the woods, into the open farmland where they could see a beast from miles away. The Bennu would be a sore sight and most likely be shot down by a brave patrol’s crossbow bolts before it even reached them.

However, if the Vargr had something else…

At this point Aza was beginning to suspect just _who_ this Vargr was. All of them had a Behemoth of some sort, but only a handful had _King_ Behemoths – and lesser still had one of them _and_ a Bennu. If this was who he thought they were, then he could expect the third beast to give him difficulty, but… no, why would _she_ come up from the Wastes? Last he saw her she had been adamant in cutting all dealings with the Bald-Ears after _The Backstab_ , as she dubbed it. Why would she take up an assassination contract on the King of… Ishgard… oh, wait, now he saw why.

“If it’s you, Bluebird,” he muttered, his breath misting slightly before him, “I’m so telling Mom on you.”

Rations clucked in her sleep, and Aymeric shifted at the noise, murmuring something under his breath. He didn’t stir, though, and Aza sighed quietly, turning into the warmth he radiated. For someone who was stubbornly denying the existence of Dragon blood, he sure was like a furnace. Unless he had a fever from the, uh, snapped ribs yesterday. He could have picked up an infection of some kind before Rations worked her magic…

Aza discreetly checked his temperature, and Aymeric was very warm. Not flushed though. Maybe that was normal for Dragon crossbreeds?

Well, he made a note to keep an eye on it. It’d be difficult to keep a sick Bald-Ear alive with everything trying to kill him. He scoffed to himself at the thought, letting his eyes slip closed as he started to take an extra hour-long nap. Hopefully the rain would have cleared up by then… he hated running in the rain…

* * *

Estinien brooded in the early morning drizzle on his ‘perch’, as Aymeric termed it.

The perch was just the cracked, mossy remains of a gargoyle’s foundation slab, jutting out as a sharp triangle from the crumbling remains of the Oaken Guard Tower. It was an old thing of stone that was probably more ancient than the Borel name, having squatted on the grassy knoll that overlooked the road leading into House Borel’s estate. Two of the walls had long since collapsed, with the third halfway there, and the fourth tenaciously holding up the remains of the domed roof and two gargoyles – and his perch.

Aymeric always said he was liable to break his neck one day when the tower collapsed from his weight ‘jumping up and down on it all day’, but Estinien knew his friend had just been jealous he wasn’t able to go onto the perch himself. He remembered when they were children, when Aymeric, bright-eyed and oblivious to the fate that await him, would gush how they could be dragoons _together_ , serving Lord Borel and having adventures and the like.

A dream that had been put to a swift end when Lord Borel legally made Aymeric his heir upon Lady Borel’s death.

Estinien shifted his weight on the perch when a sharp wind gusted at him, spraying a fine, misty rain into his face. The skies were heavy and dark with clouds, and he could hear the distant rumble of thunder, far over the Willowed Woods he could see on the horizon. He wondered if Aymeric would have crossed it by now. He must be miserable, riding out in this squall first thing.

Well, he would be miserable anyway, no doubt. Despite his natural poise and charm, Aymeric _despised_ the trappings of nobility. He would always want to get stuck in with the workers, and when they were children it was common to see Aymeric being scolded by Lady Borel for dirtying his fine clothes stomping about in the dirt helping the workers till the soil or tearing his breeches when gambolling through brambles when foraging for berries, or coming back home tracking mud and dripping river water because he was trying to copy the Huntswoman Calinne’s trick of catching fish with her hands. It was why Estinien had warmed up to him eventually – despite his parentage, Aymeric was no snobbish, highborn _brat_. He inspired loyalty and affection just by his earnest, hardworking and humble nature alone.

It was why Estinien knew Aymeric would be a good king. He was kind and strong and for all his grouching and grumblings about how he never _wanted_ the crown, he would put his everything into it. Maybe he would knock some sense into those stuffy nobles sitting pretty in Ishgard, and if Estinien managed to join the Heavensward, he could see it for himself.

Estinien shifted his weight again, carefully easing out of his crouch and swinging his legs over the cracked edge of the gargoyle’s foundation. On either side of him, the remains of the other gargoyles stubbornly squatted on their own perches. The wind and rain over the centuries had long destroyed the details of their faces, so they were just faceless, hunched stones with grasping claws and stubby wings, standing guard over a tower that would no doubt crumble within the next decade. Or be pulled down. Estinien had heard talk that Lord Borel wished to tear it down and perhaps build a new watch tower in its place.

It _did_ make for a sorry sight, and as House Borel had shot up quick in the class hierarchy, what with fostering the new King and all, it wouldn’t do for this to be the first thing for visitors to see. Estinien saw the logic in it, but it still make him irritable. He and Aymeric came here often as children, and whilst he realised it had been a miracle they hadn’t killed themselves, crawling and climbing such old, crumbling stone, it held a fond place in his heart. To destroy it, to no longer sit here on his perch and gaze out over the rolling, lush farmlands of House Borel…

Estinien drank it in, and he saw a flash of lightning in the far distance, in the direction where Aymeric was now.

“Is it ominous or not, that your journey is being plagued by such ill weather?” Estinien mused, “Halone must be teasing you, Aymeric.”

There was no answer, and Estinien stubbornly squashed the longing that threatened to blossom up in him. His friend was far out of reach by now, but only _for now_. Come winter, by Lord Borel’s permission or not, he will be at Ishgard, at his friend’s side, protecting him from the corrupting ills of the nobility.

By then this tower would be ripped down, no doubt.

Estinien pushed himself off the perch, dropping down the fifty fulms and landing as lightly as a cat. He pushed himself to his feet, brushing the blades of grass sticking stubbornly to the metal of his greaves, and began the slow walk back to House Borel in the drizzling rain.

If he had remained for only a few more minutes, he would have seen dark, winged shape burst free of the Willowed Woods, and into the low hanging clouds above.   

* * *

Aymeric woke up to someone poking his nose.

“Wake up,” Aza’s husky voice, rough with sleep, murmured at him, “It is morning.”

“Mornin’…?” Aymeric half-slurred, reluctantly straightening up from where he had curled up during the night. He felt a cold beak tug at his hair, almost making him jump right out of his skin and into full wakefulness. Aza laughed at him for his skittishness, and Aymeric sat there, too disorientated to move, as Thogun groomed his hair.

“That is good, _Ddogn_ likes you,” Aza said, giving him a bright smile that showed off his wickedly sharp fangs, “Your hair is very messy, yes? Like nest. All curls.”

 _You could house a family of birds in that, m’lord,_ Asette’s voice, faded with memory, cut right through Aymeric. He swallowed down the unpleasant feeling bubbling up in his chest, and gently pushed Thogun’s beak away from his hair.

“Yes, I should cut it…” Aymeric said, smoothing down his hair. In this wet air, his hair was frizzling and curling – it had already growing a big shaggy, but now he feared it was going to be untameable this morning. He reluctantly left it, “What are we…?”

“I was going to hunt for food,” Aza said, giving him an intense stare, “But in this? No, I am too lazy. So, we will sit here and watch rain, and eat these for morning food.”

Aza then produced a small bag, opening it up and letting Aymeric peer inside. There were dark brain shapes that smelled faintly of apples.

“These?” he curiously dug one out. It was hard and crunchy when he tentatively nibbled on it – it _was_ apple, baked and dried, “Oh, apples.”

“Good for snack, not, uh, sustain,” Aza frowned at the word, clearly unhappy with its usage, but moved on, “We eat these and break camp. Then I will hunt us something on move. We must go fast. Fast out of woods.”

“Before we are attacked?”

“Yes. Out onto open farmland. Easier to see beasts.”

Also House Borel patrols would be roaming the merchant’s road past the woods, Aymeric thought. It would be easy to flag them down and have safety in numbers when taken home. He found himself feeling a bit more assured and relaxed at that. Not that Aza was unpleasant company but… he had him on edge, most of the time, and Aymeric was aware he didn’t know him _at al_ l.

No, that was unfair. He knew Aza was a good, kind man at the very least, for helping him when Aymeric could offer so little.

Still made him nervous, though.

“Alright,” Aymeric said, “I’m happy with that.”

“Good. It is only thing we can do.”

So, no real choice, Aymeric thought wryly, but he supposed Aza was in charge here. They sat there in silence, eating the remaining apple chips – Aza fed most of them to Thogun, only taking a scant handful for himself. Now that Aymeric thought about it, Aza gave most of the stew last night to him too and ate only a bowlful of it. Was he sacrificing his food for him?

Aymeric frowned at that and made a mental note to ask Lord Borel to recompense Aza with as much food as he could physically carry.

The rain had lightened into a mist that left chilly droplets on his face when they began to break camp. Sometime during the night Aymeric’s muscles had grown stiff and painful along his back and shoulders, his ribs throbbing with dull pain. He bulled through it, helping Aza pack everything away, strap the belongings back onto Thogun’s back – including his own pack – and destroying the marks they had left. It had been dark when they started, but now some weak, cloudy sunlight was peeking through the leaves. Aymeric still almost tripped and stumbled over every single root in that clearing a thousand times over though.

“We will avoid road,” Aza said once they had refilled their water bottles from the spring and were dressed up for the wet, chilly walk. Aymeric had forwent his chainmail, keeping to the more comfortable leather armour instead. His ribs gave a sharp stab whenever he thought about donning that weight.

“I agree,” Aymeric murmured, his thoughts turning to the bodies they had left there yesterday. Had someone found them already? A merchant or traveller coming through? Unless no one had entered the woods after them, scared off by the commotion the King Behemoth and the Bennu had made. What if one of the monsters that woke at night dragged them off to eat?

Aza suddenly jabbed him lightly in the stomach, making him wince, “Get out of your head,” the Miqo’te told him sharply, “Think now. We need to travel through wood, so it will take time, but we will be _hidden_. So, move quick, move quiet, and we will live, yes?”

“Yes,” Aymeric said, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. He could breakdown later, once he was under the warm roof of home, “I’m sorry. I will focus.”

Aza frowned at him for a long moment – before something in his hard expression softened, “It is fine. But. You cannot stop and… the word… be sad here. Those people died so you can live. So, you need to focus on now, to live _now_. It would be embarrassing, yes, to see them so soon in afterlife?”

That drew a weak chuckle out of him. He could imagine Asette physically kicking him out of Halone’s Halls herself if she saw him now. She would be offended that her life bought him only an extra day, “Yes, you’re right.”

“Of course I am right,” Aza sniffed, “Now come. Let us get out of these Woods.”

The going was slow. The trees crowded close together, their roots trying to tangle Aymeric’s feet whenever he tried to overstep them. Sometimes his boot would sink deep into what looked like solid, mossy ground and Aza would have to help pull him free. Sometimes Aymeric would stumble, and Thogun’s beak would snap lightning quick on the back of his jerkin, hauling him upright and butting her head between his shoulder blades to push him onwards.

It was a long, hard journey, Aymeric pushing himself as fast as he could, but feeling clumsy and awkward next to the ease that Aza and Thogun traversed the treacherous ground. His thighs burned from exertion of yanking themselves free from sucking mud almost every step, and his ribs were afire with a pain sharp enough that he was sweating more from agony than exhaustion. But still he soldiered on, refusing to falter or for Aza to look at him with pity, and privately wishing that the stories of the Royal Family’s Dragon blood were true.

 _If I was a Dragon_ , he thought half-deliriously, _I could just fly out of these woods. I wouldn’t have to fear anything_.

But Aymeric was just a man. A small, insignificant man, really, and by the time he saw the glint of sunlight past the trees, heralding the end of the wood, he almost wept with relief. Beyond these trees was flat, gently undulating farmland – and patrols. Patrols with Chocobos, that he could potentially borrow to ride the rest of the way home. It was these thoughts that gave him that extra burst of energy, struggling forwards until-

They stepped out of the woods, to the wide expanse of House Borel’s coveted farmlands – and rumbling, deep thunder.

Aza twitched, briefly looking up at the sky. He had his Behemoth helmet on, so Aymeric couldn’t see his expression, but the Miqo’te’s tail had tucked low between his legs, the fur fluffed out. Was he… nervous?

“Thunder… is bad,” Aza muttered, and Aymeric had a vague memory of something about Thunderbirds in the Wastes, some terribly powerful creature, “We should hurry. Does Em need to take a few minutes?”

Aymeric felt like he needed an hour to recover from that ordeal. Mud was splattered all the way up his legs and past his thighs, and he never felt so wet and miserable in his life, but… Aymeric just had to remember the hulking Behemoth panting over him, the Bennu that reared up high alight with fire, and managed to dig deep enough to find some well of untapped energy.

“I can keep on,” he said breathlessly, “The ground should be easier now.”

Aza studied him for a moment, “…you can ride Thogun, if you need.”

“ _No_ ,” Aymeric said stubbornly, forcing himself to straighten up and look not like he was on death’s door, “I am fine.”

“Stubborn,” Aza clucked at him, but didn’t push the issue and led them on their way.

Aymeric didn’t immediately recognise the immediate area – they were far from the merchant’s road, and they had to clamber over a fence that led into a field full of fluffy Karakuls grazing. A few of them stared at them, their jaws moving as they chewed cud, but thankfully none of them showed their infamous ornery attitude and tried to challenge them.

“Odd things,” Aza commented as they strolled across the field, looking at a nearby Karakul, “They headbutt hard.”

“You’ve seen them before.”

“Many times. I have been… chased? Yes, chased, many times. Even though they are furballs on legs, they like to pick fights. They seem too stupid to be afraid.”

That sounded about right.

They soon left the Karakul field and clambered over the fence onto a narrow, winding farmroad, the ruts of passing wagons filled with muddy water. They splashed along this path, following it until it emptied onto a wider, albeit muddier path, the noise of bleating Karakuls, sheep and cows accompanying the building thrum of falling rain. Thunder would rumble occasionally too, and each time Aza would flinch nervously. If Aymeric wasn’t in such blinding agony he would’ve teased him. As it was, it took all he had to put one foot in front of another, cursing the fact that these farmer roads were just _more_ mud. Damn _rain_ , damn _everything_ …

A farmer on a wagon driven by two broad Chocobos trunbled past them at one point. The farmer, hunched on their seat with a hood pulled lower over their head, squinted at Aymeric and Aza both but didn’t stop. Aymeric supposed he wasn’t recognisable in his hunting gear and with his hair plastered down from the rain. The farmer continued on, towards the Willowed Woods, and they kept on the road, further and further until they _finally_ came upon one of the villages that dotted the Borel farmlands.

‘Village’ was perhaps a too generous term. Most of these settlements were just several farmsteads merged into one, with a small, modest chapel located somewhere for their daily worship. In this dark weather there was no one about, doors shut and windows aglow with light, but Aymeric didn’t want the locals, what he wanted was the _guards_. For every settlement had some form of protection, or even warning system. In this village there was a solid looking watchpost sitting ten fulms up off the muddy ground on thick logs. As they approached, Aymeric could see a crossbowman guard watching them with a cloak thrown over his chainmail to protect him from the worst of the rain.

“Halt!” he called when they drew close to the watchpost, just before the settlement, “Who are you, travellers? I don’t recognise your like here!”

 _He really doesn’t recognise me_? Aymeric thought in disbelief, recognising the crossbowman. Knight Enex. He was near useless with a sword, but put an arrow and a bow in his hand and he was the deadliest man alive.

“It is Aymeric de Borel,” he called up, “I have returned-”

“ _King_ Aymeric has gone to the capital, sir! What would he be doing wandering about the backroads in the pissin’ rain with some Beastman?” Enex barked back, but he frowned down at him, leaning over the barrier of his watch post to squint through the rain at them, “Though, there is a likeliness, and your voice is the same. Can it be…?”

“M’lord!” Another voice yelled, and everyone turned to see another knight splashing through the large puddles in the road towards them. Knight Paumie, a broad-shouldered girl that hefted a large battleaxe like it weighed as light as a loaf of bread, “Enex, you _dolt_ , it’s Lord Borel! You need those ‘eagle-eyes’ of yours checked!”

“What?” Enex suddenly paled, “Uh, I meant no disrespect, m’lord!”

“It’s fine,” Aymeric said tightly. Normally he’d find this amusing, but he was wet, cold, in pain and had a very angry bird that wanted to kill him flying about somewhere, “It is strange that I’m here, I know. My party was attacked and slain by an assassin, and I’m attempting to return back to the estate to regroup.”

“An assassin?” Paumie gasped, having reached them now. She was splattered with mud from near head to toe, like she’d been wrestling with Karakuls in their pen, “How powerful could they be to best all them knights?”

“King Behemoth,” Aza spoke up. His voice was so quiet though that only Aymeric and Paumie heard him. He seemed oddly reticent in the face of all these strangers, “Now a Bennu.”

Paumie frowned at him, “Who’re you?”

“He is my saviour,” Aymeric cut in, to stem any complications before they started, “So treat him with the utmost respect.”

“Uh, yes, m’lord!”

Aza gave him a look from behind his Behemoth mask, but Aymeric couldn’t read it.

“What’s going on? I can’t hear you down there!”

“Get down from the bloody watch post, you dumb oaf!” Paumie bellowed pat Enex, “There’s an assassin about after Lord Borel!”

“An _assassin_!? I better stay up here then, right? I’ll put an arrow through its eye, I will, m’lord!”

“That’s-” Aymeric began wearily when he was cut off by an inhuman scream.

Everyone froze – except for Aza whose head snapped round so fast it was a miracle he didn’t give himself whiplash. He looked up almost wildly, then cursed aloud – just as something plunged straight out of the clouds above, trailing wisping steam and bright, glittering embers that were almost blinding against the dull, grey sky above.

“DOWN!” Aza roared, abruptly lunging at Aymeric and tackling him flat on the muddy ground just as the Bennu unfurled from its rapid dive to lash out where they had _just_ been with cruel talons that tore a chunk of the earth with it. Everything became _loud_ then – Aymeric was half-blinded with pain, Aza above him as the Bennu screeched, wheeling high into the air for another dive as Paumie and Enex started yelling and screaming words he struggled to understand.

“Up!” Aza barked at him, grabbing him by the front of his jerkin and hauling him up, “UP! UP! GET UP!”  

Aymeric felt like he couldn’t breathe, stumbling as Thogun squawked and hissed in challenge at the sky above. Embers were raining down on them, mixed with the rain, the air stinking of ash. Paumie was clambering up the watchtower as Enex had his crossbow in hand, yelling obscenities at the circling Bennu, waiting for it to dive back into range to shoot at it.

All he could think of Paumie and Enex – mediocre knights, good people, happy futures – lying dead and broken in the mud, the entire homestead burning, because of him – he was frozen.

Aza looked frustrated, still gripping the front of his jerkin as he looked up at the circling Bennu above. The bird gave an angry scream then rose higher until it vanished into the grey clouds, visible as a dull glow before vanishing entirely. Thunder boomed, the rain pelted down harder, and Paumie was in the watch tower, blowing the horn.

It was near deafening – but the horn was answered with another in the distance, where it would be answered with another until it reached House Borel, warning it of an attack on its lands.

“We cannot run,” Aza snarled, “We run from here, it will dive and pluck us like fish from river on open ground. Damn. I did not think the clouds…”

“M’lord!” Enex yelled down at him, “Don’t worry, we’ll protect you. No bird can avoid my arrows. It tries that shite again, and I’ll put an arrow through its eye.”

“Enex, you dolt!” Paumie yelled breathlessly, red-faced from blowing the horn, “That thing’s movin’ too fast for you to do anything!”

“You’ll see! I’ll-”

A pulse of bright-white fire spat out of the clouds towards the watch post.

Paumie saw it, thank _Halone_ , and with a shrill scream she tackled Enex right off the edge of the watch tower. They both tumbled in a clumsy tangle onto the soft mud below, just as the flames smashed into the wooden structure. Despite the rain, the thing went up in a great rush, blinding white and popping and snapping, and the two knights slipped and scrambled onto their feet, covered in mud, to huddle close to him and Aza and Thogun, both white-faced with terror.

“I-I-I-It spat f-f-fire!” Paumie stammered, “L-Like a d-d-dragon!”

“Fire!” Enex squeaked, not looking so confident now, gripping his muddy crossbow to his chest like it was his lifeline – it was. Aside from the bolts in his quiver strapped to his legs, Enex looked to have only five shots on him to keep the monster at bay. Aymeric somehow felt it would take more than five bolts to bring this beast down.

“Useless,” Aza spat, letting go of Aymeric and stomping away from them. He unsheathed his blade as he went, and with the white flames dancing so close, it cast strange lights that rippled over the snarling Behemoth etched into the steel, its eye growing a malevolent red.

“What’s he doing?!” Paumie demanded.

Aza started yelling at the clouds above. It was in a rapid, hissing snarling language, and he waved his sword about like a madman. All of them, except Thogun who was bristling angrily beside Aymeric, stared in utter bewilderment at the scene.

“Is he…” Enex said slowly, “What is he doing?”

“I don’t know,” Aymeric said blankly, having gone so far into panicked fear that he was strangely calm about the situation. He could still hear the horns bellowing. _Maybe Estinien will come_ , something in him said, utterly tranquil.

It became clear soon. With a scream, the Bennu divebombed out of the clouds like a comet, leaving a red streak in its wake. It was almost too fast to follow, the bird sweeping its wings out, embers scattering amongst the rain, cruel, dark talons extended to crush Aza between them – the Miqo’te stood his ground, heaved the blade up as he pivoted on one foot and-

_CRUNCH!_

The Bennu _screamed_ as it crashed into the ground in a rough tumble, throwing mud everywhere. One wing looked like it had been cleaved almost all the way through, hanging by a thick string of sinew to the creature’s body. The bird thrashed and screeched, white fire guttering in its throat, but the beast’s eyes rolled madly, and when it finally found its feet, the rain wreathed it in a silver steam the heat was that intense, the muddy water at its feet boiling. It was wounded, but not defeated.

“Fury _fuck me_ ,” Paumie blurted, “He just, in _one swing_ …”

But it came at a cost. Aza staggered a step when he turned, a bright wash of red splashing down his left side and leg. His blade was held steady though, and Bennu and Miqo’te both glared and snarled at one another, both heavily wounded and bleeding into the mud.

Enex seemed to remember he had a crossbow then, fumbling with it as he drew it up to aim. The abrupt movement had the Bennu’s head swinging towards them, its beak open wide as white flame burst free of its throat-

Thogun’s beak clamped on the back of Aymeric’s jerkin and flung him to the side-

-just as the brilliant white fireball engulfed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :U
> 
> im so tired work pls. 
> 
> but yes. estinien stole almost two pages worth of brooding there. i didn't even intend for that. it just happened. oh estinien. you card. 
> 
> please comment/kudos if you enjoyed! i love hearing people's opinions or predictions on what they think will happen or what stuff means, fufufu~


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My knights tell me you are my son’s saviour,” the old man said after a pause where they just stared at each other for a bit. His voice was deep and rumbling, “My Dragoon say you’re the one my son needed saving from. Which is it?”
> 
> Aza almost sighed in relief. A man who got straight to the point. Finally.

For a moment, Aymeric thought he was dead.

Then his ribs gave a sharp stab of pain, jolting him out of his daze. The entire world was white with steam, and he became aware he was flat on his back, rain hitting his face, feeling very much like a Chocobo had kicked him full on in the chest. He groaned, puffing out a short, strained breath as he forced himself to roll onto his good side. His vision almost went white with pain from the movement.

His ribs must’ve broken all over again from whatever happened, he thought dizzily, managing to somehow get his knees under him. There an annoying high-pitched ringing in his ears, but slowly, muffled noises were gradually overcoming the ringing, and he squinted through the thinning steam and haze of rain to see flashes and shapes lurching and lunging about.

The Bennu came into focus first: it looked like an ethereal ghost, the rain melting into steam ilms before it hit its glowing red body, wreathing it in a haze that trailed after its every movement. The muddy water at its feet flash-boiled, sending more steam spiralling into the air. It was like an aggressive cloud was lunging forwards, a sharp, cruel beak and flashing talons raking out of the haze at unpredictable moments, desperately and furiously trying to rip apart the small figure darting and dodging away from it.

Aza.

The Miqo’te was clearly flagging. A bright streak of red stained his side, the chainmail coat split open to reveal a gaping, stark red wound steadily spilling blood. It ran pink in the rain, and Aza’s movements were slowly becoming more and more sluggish, more and more clumsy and staggering with each jump, each side-step, each roll, his blade looking more like a cumbersome burden than a weapon. It was only a matter of time until one of them stumbled.

_“Kweh…_ ”

Aymeric looked away from the deadly dance before him to see Thogun squatting painfully in the mud close to him, her underside muddied and a few feathers singed and blackened with soot. It looked like she had shielded him from the worst of the blast, though thankfully she didn’t look too badly injur- _oh_.

Enex. Paumie. Gods, how could he have _forgotten_?

Aymeric wildly turned his head, searching, the ringing in his ears quietening enough so he could hear the Bennu’s frustrated screeches, the whistle of its claws streaking through the air, the _hisssss_ of steam and embers dousing into the puddles. Everything was too thick with steam and misting rain to _see_ , so he painfully, awkwardly, heaved himself to his feet, Thogun warking weakly at him-

-and as Aymeric stood, he looked up to see Aza finally make a fatal error: he slipped.

The Miqo’te’s foot hit a slick patch of mud in the road and his leg slid out far to the side, making him cry out as it pulled hard at his wound, his knee buckling enough that he _staggered_ and-

Bennu screamed in triumph, lashing out with sharp talons that would slice Aza in half-

Aymeric did not remember drawing his sword. He did not remember crossing the short space between himself and them. All he remembered was, as if in slow motion, Bennu rearing high, lone wing stretched out, steam blossoming around it like it was a wraith, black scaled foot lashing out, hooked talons aimed to split Aza open from neck to groin, Aza who was half on his knees, looking up, the light of the Bennu reflecting off his snarling Behemoth helm, unable to _dodge,_ the thought of _no, no more lives, no more_ -

-and suddenly Aymeric was amongst that swirling madness of steam until his shoulder collided into a solid body of molten feathers. It _burned_. Gods, did it _burn_ , but at that point the agony was such that it was almost numb, and half-blinded with steam, with heat, with pain, Aymeric wildly rammed his blade up into the scorching fire pressing against him, tumbling down amongst a dizzying swirl of steam and bright red feathers and sizzling embers.

The Bennu’s claws missed Aza by _ilms,_ and the monster screamed as it crashed to the floor, Aymeric’s blade rammed up to the hilt just between its ribs. Boiling red blood spilled down the hilt in a searing cascade, and Aymeric had enough wits left about him to frantically let go before he was scalded, to roll off the burning body beneath him. He did so with the clumsy grace of a beached fish.

The muddy water below was a cold, nasty shock.

He passed out.

* * *

Estinien’s legs burned when he pushed his Jump the furthest it could go for the fifth time in a row. He was clearing distances that would take a mounted man hours to cross, but the horns were bellowing, and as Estinien traced the path in the direction each watchman pointed him towards ( _“That horn in that village blew before me, ser!”_ ), he could see something in the distance growing brighter and more violent. A red and white flash of fire, the inhuman screams of some _Monster_ , large and powerful and dreadful.  


His hand ached from how tightly he gripped his lance, ready for a strike. His feet struck the thick branch of a towering oak amongst a field, and he paused for a breath before Jumping again, knowing this would be the last.

The apex of his Jump carried him directly over the village where the Monster – a bright and terrible thing, wreathed with steam, struggling in a heap on the ground. This far up, Estinien couldn’t see the knights dealing with the creature, but too many people were prone on the floor, with only one standing but clearly wounded. Sharpening his focus as he twisted his body in mid-air, feeling everything slow to a near crawl as he mentally picked out his point of impact, the monster that was rising to its feet, serpentine neck weakly weaving from side to side, a long wing flapping as if to take flight…

Estinien let his Jump take him down into a Spineshatter Dive.

Time rocketed past. Suddenly he was no longer amongst the clouds, looking down. Suddenly his lance was buried two three fulms deep in between the monster’s shoulder blades, cleaving its spine in twain, a hot spurt of boiling blood splashing over his greaves. He grit his teeth against the burning pain, digging his heels into the feathered back as the Monster screeched – gurgled and- then-

-crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. Its queer, glowing feathers flickered… then dulled and dulled and dulled until they were an ashy grey. The steam wisped away until only drizzling rain filled the sudden quiet.

“Hmph,” Estinien was disappointed. Either this beast was so weak to be brought so low by common knights, or…

A splash made him look up. The wounded man – was not a man at all. A Beastman with a snarling Behemoth mask stared at him with alien, yellow eyes behind a narrow visor, barely standing from a wound splitting his side open. But the Beastman moved, its massive blade hovering an ilm from the floor, inching towards a man lying prone and almost face down amongst the mud. His filthy and singed clothes were not recognisable as a knight’s, but he was Elezen. A queer pair to be travelling.

Estinien wrenched the lance out of the Monster beneath him, and lightly hopped off it. The water splashed audibly and the Beastman dared to move a few paces faster until it was at the prone man’s side. Its blade was lifted now, clearly warding Estinien off.

“Were you fighting this beast?” Estinien asked it, letting his lance dangle loose in his grip – not quite threatening, but ready to be brought to bare if this Beastman felt like having a go, “Or was it yours? Your kind tame these things, don’t they?”

The Beastman let out a low, growling noise, “Who are you? Are you of House Borel?”

Gods, its accent was _awful_.

“I should be demanding who _you_ are. What is a Beastman doing roaming about in these lands in such suspicious circumstances? Is this beast yours? Did you lose control of it? Answer me. Now.”

The Beastman’s gaze flickered down to the man at his feet, then at him. Its Behemoth helmet covered its expression, but Estinien could read the tension in its body. The Beastman was agitated – which instantly roused his suspicions. That meant the monster _did_ belong to it, and it was trying to think of a lie to wriggle out of the situation. Estinien lifted his lance a fraction, considering the best way to disarm it to detain the thing, when-

“Ugh…” a noise of groggy pain drew his attention, and he warily looked towards it, keeping the Beastman in his peripheral. The other two shapes he spied from the sky were rousing – Knight Enex and Knight Paumie, both of them muddied and singed, were climbing painfully to their feet.

“Oooh, my head…” Paumie groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. Blood dribbled down from her nose and crusted over her upper lip and chin, running pink in the rain – but she didn’t seem to care when she suddenly gasped and looked about wildly, “Oh, forget my head! Where’s m’lord?!”

“Lord?” Estinien asked.

“Ser!” Paumie yelped, suddenly elbowing Enex who was still doubled over making short little retching noise into the mud, “Enex, you dolt! Stop puking! The Dragoon’s here! Ser! There’s a Monster… bird… oh, it’s dead…”

“Very dead,” Estinien confirmed, shifting his gaze when something rose from the muck. It was a massive Chocobo, a golden one that was coated in thick layer of mud and soot, its back piled high with someone’s belongings. The Beastman’s, no doubt. Everyone knew they had monstrous Chocobos, and this one looked like one of its parents had boldly coupled with a Zu of some sort.

This Chocobo hissed at him, but limped slowly towards its master whilst keeping its distance from Estinien. The Beastman murmured to it, and Estinien tensed when the bird turned to the man lying in the road, lifting a clawed foot as if to strike down-

-and was instead startled when green tinged, cool feeling aether swirled about it. Healing magic. From a Chocobo. _What_.

“It’s m’lord!” Paumie wailed, sounding distraught as she limped rapidly towards the Chocobo and the Beastman. Estinien hissed a warning at her, but she ignored him, “Is he still alive-”

“He is alive,” the Beastman said, still staring at Estinien with distrustful, alien eyes, “But _Ddogn_ can only heal so much. We need… proper healer.”

“Who is he?” Estinien demanded, striding forwards. Paumie at this point was kneeling at the man’s side, gingerly rolling him over, Enex stumbling over with the same complexion as curdled milk. The mystery man’s hair was almost brown from the mud, and his leather armour was charred in some places but- the moment Estinien’s eyes fell on the man’s face, his heart stopped dead in his chest.

“Gods…” he swore, horrified.

It was _Aymeric_.  

* * *

House Borel’s infirmary was very different to the back alley Conjurer Shops Aza normally frequented. The room was warm and spacious, sectioned off with thick white drapes between each cot. The beds all had feathered mattresses, and there was a fire crackling in the hearth. The smell was sickly, though, disinfectant that failed to cover up the slight stink of stale infection and death. The Head Chirugeon himself was a plain, mild-mannered man who did not bat an eyelash at Aza’s abrupt arrival into his care. He treated him kindly, spoke softly, and tended to Aza’s embarrassing injury.  


However, this place also doubled as Aza’s jail cell.

He looked up from where he had been contemplating his gloved hands, eyeing the heavily armoured guards standing at the door to the infirmary. They stared back at him. He looked back down.

Aza supposed he should be grateful they were letting him wait here instead of a dank cell in the dungeons. The ‘Dragoon’ that had kill-stealed the Bennu had been rude, abrasive and mistrustful of him – especially when he realised it was Aymeric lying dying in the mud. For some reason he accused _Aza_ of his injuries! Even when those two knights vouched for him, the Dragoon had practically frogmarched him all the way back to House Borel’s estate as if he was a dangerous prisoner. If the situation had been different, Aza would have shoved that lance of his so far up as his ass he could have used the man as a banner for his insulting presumption – but Aymeric was injured far beyond Rations’s ability to heal so, Aza swallowed his pride and limped his way all the way to the estate. 

Aymeric wasn’t here though. He probably had his own healing room, or they just didn’t trust Aza to be in the same room as him even with armed guards – which, to be fair, was wise. Even in his weakened state and unarmed he could kill these chumps easy… but Aza wasn’t his sister. He knew when to pick his fights and when to give them up, and this was a give up one.

He sat on the bed and waited.

His patience was rewarded. After two full turns of the clock’s hands, the door to the infirmary opened and an unfamiliar man walked in with Rude Fuckface Dragoon on his heels. Fuckface didn’t have his stupid helmet on, and Aza could see his pale face scowling openly like him. Aza didn’t even deign him with a glance, keeping his gaze locked onto the unknown.

The man was broad-shouldered and tall for an Elezen. His arms were thick like oak, and his hair was dark and going grey about the temples, his skin brown and wrinkled like old leather. He was old… but tough and fit still like a well-worn pair of boots. He was dressed in that pompous finery all Highborn Bald-Ears wore, which did nothing to soften his hard, unyielding edges. He looked like he could benchpress Aza with contemptible ease, and he wondered if this old man had a dash of Roegadyn blood in his family tree somewhere.

“My knights tell me you are my son’s saviour,” the old man said after a pause where they just stared at each other for a bit. His voice was deep and rumbling, “My Dragoon say you’re the one my son needed saving from. Which is it?”

Aza almost sighed in relief. A man who got straight to the point. Finally.

“Saviour,” Aza said bluntly, “Your son is targeted by Vargr, yes? Assassin. I save him… three times now.”

“And yet he was on death’s door when I arrived,” Fuckface muttered.

Aza snarled at him, foregoing proper grammar in his haste to vent his frustrated anger; “Like you do better, _horseface_? Like your _twenty dead knights_? Much help they were, yes? Em almost _dead_ , if not me helping!”

Fuckface’s eyes flashed with rage, “ _You-_ ”

“Enough,” Old Man said. He did not raise his voice, but something about his tone made them both sullenly quieten, glowering at each other, “You are not _children_. Well, I assume _you_ are not a child, Beastman. I know little and less of your kind, and you are so small it is difficult to tell.”

“Miqo’te,” Aza said sourly, unsure if he was being mocked or not, “I am _Miqo’te_. Not ‘Beastman’. And adult.”

“Miqo’te,” Old Man said smoothly, very much like Aymeric, “I am Lord Borel, Aymeric’s father, which you would have gathered already. Tell me more about what happened with the knights I sent with my son.”

So, Aza told him. His head was pounding, and he knew he sounded stupid and child-like with his flagging grasp of Eorzean Common. But Aymeric’s father listened attentive, absorbing his clumsy words with a blank expression. It was difficult to tell if he believed him or not. Aza wasn’t optimistic about it. No doubt he would be called a liar and thrown into a jail cell until Aymeric woke up and told them otherwise – if he did. He was home now. Most Bald-Ears would delight in having not to pay up for a deal, and Aza could feel frustrated despair bubbling up in him. It wasn’t _fair_. He tried his best, and Aymeric had been nice and kind – fucking _Bluebird_. He knew it was _her_ hunting him. He was going to break her knees when he saw her next!

An awkward silence fell on them when Aza finished his tale, and Lord Borel closed his eyes in deep thought.

“I see,” he finally said, “I believe you.”

“ _What_?” Aza and Fuckface blurted at once.

“A letter came by Moogle not long before this meeting, as if by fate,” Lord Borel said, “It was from Lord Rouvaux, who had grown worried when Aymeric did not exit the woods when he should have. He sent a scout to follow the trail, to see if their path had been blocked by a felled tree… and instead came upon a party of slain knights lining the side of the road and a headless King Behemoth. He confirmed they were _my_ knights… but my son was not amongst them.”

“You… didn’t mention that,” Fuckface said blankly.

“I wished to see how the Miqo’te’s story compared to the letter’s account,” Lord Borel said mildly, “It slipped my mind to mention it to you.”

“You… believe me,” Aza said dazedly, bewildered by his good fortune. _Thank you Lord Rou-whoever you are_ , he thought, _your letter saved me a cold cell._

“I admit, initially I had my doubts when you first arrived,” Lord Borel admitted, “But I see now I was unfair in my initial assessment… thank you for protecting my son. I will do everything in my power to repay you for your kindness.”

Aza felt awkward now, because his price had already been paid, “Ah, no, no… I have… agreement with Em. He paid me. No… no pay from you.”

“A gift then, as thanks,” Lord Borel amended swiftly, “First, allow me to take you to more comfortable lodgings. Knight Foline.”

One of the armoured guards pushed from the door and stood to attention before the Lord, “Sir!”

“Please escort- hm, I apologise, I never asked your name, sir.”

“Um, I am Aza,” he replied awkwardly, painfully aware he was in unfamiliar territory.

“Just Aza?” Lord Borel pressed.

Aza remained quiet.

“Very well,” Lord Borel said, turning to Knight Foline, “Please take Ser Aza to the guest accommodation – the Maple Room will do nicely, I would think.”

“Sir!”

Everything moved like it was in a dream. Lord Borel and Fuckface left, and Knight Foline lead him out of the infirmary and through the massive, winding hallways until he was dumped in a room far too big and grandiose for _him_. The knight left him, and Aza was left standing in the middle of the room utterly terrified of his sudden circumstances.

Rations was in House Borel’s stables, being tended to by a Master-of-Chocobo, whatever the _fuck_ that was. Aymeric was convalescing somewhere in this _labyrinth_. Aza was alone and confused in an unfamiliar room with the only thing on him being the silken undershirt that he wore beneath his chainmail coat. It was spotted with blood, and had a sharp tear in its side, but it was better than walking around shirtless. The Chirugeon had apologetically said they had nothing his size except for children clothes, and Aza refused to wear _children clothes_.

He paced the room nervously, taking it in. It had a large hearth with an ivory white mantlepiece. There was a diorama resting on it, of a great, serpentine dragon with feathered wings rearing up on its hind legs. Before it was a beautiful Bald-Ear woman with flowing white hair and a dress so thin she may as well’ve been naked, standing amongst the snow. The artist had taken pains to paint the effect of frost on her skin, her eyes the same shade of blue as Aymeric’s.

_Conception of King Thordan I._

It looked like a weird way to conceive someone, Aza thought, distracted from his nerves by studying the diorama. The dragon looked like it was ready to bite the woman’s head off – and the sizing… unless magic was involved there was no way they could _physically_ conceive a child. In the Wastes, if something happened you couldn’t explain by logic, the answer always was Magic – or Voidsent, but that was a whole other different kettle of fish.

Aza looked away from the diorama. The room had dark wooden panelling on the walls, with a dark blue plush carpet and a queen-sized bed with a canopy and everything. Other stuff cluttered the room, but Aza paid none of it any mind, drifting towards the wide window. It had stopped raining, but the sky still grumbled and rumbled unhappily, swollen with dark clouds. He could see a garden from his window – large trees with apples bending the branches low dotted its lush, green lawn, flowers bursting in a riot of colour from the thick bushes lining the stone walls. It was a nice view.

But Aza was worried. Aymeric had been in such a bad way, and Aza felt _mortified_ that he had allowed things to go so wrong. He had misjudged that swing so poorly. If he hadn’t been injured, he would’ve finished the fight before Aymeric got hurt – before _Rations_ got hurt. His Chocobo was tough, but she had been limping and he felt sick at the thought that his overconfidence had hurt her so.

He ran a hand through his hair, slinking off to the bed. He was restless, but he had a feeling despite Lord Borel’s geniality he probably wasn’t allowed to roam the house freely. He flopped onto the bed, making a face at how he sunk into it. Too soft.

He hoped Aymeric was okay. He couldn't give him his favour if he was dead. 

* * *

Bluebird woke up with a grunt and a splitting headache, the phantom ache of a lance severing her spine and popping her heart fading with each short, strained breath.  


Bloody _Dragoons_.

She stiffly sat up from where she’d been lying in her bedroll underneath her tarp, her muscles stiff with pain. Aza had put up a fierce fight like she expected, but _damn_ , he had gotten faster the last time she set Bennu on him. He had actually _crippled_ her poor mount – and now the beast was dead because of a _dragoon_. What was Aza even _doing_? He _hated_ Bald-Ears! Why was he running around saving their blasted _king_?

Furious, Bluebird squinted out at the clearing. The rain had stopped, but the little clearing she was in was swampy with puddles. Thankfully her spot underneath the tarp was still dry, so she lied back down and contemplated her current situation. She was down a King Behemoth _and_ a Bennu, which meant she was going to have to bring in the _Beast_. Not _a_ beast. _The Beast_.

She’d have to be careful though. Aza could survive a brief death, but The Beast had potential to _permanently_ dead him, and she didn’t want that no matter how much of an irritating little shit he was. Mom would kill her for one, and Bluebird was many things but she wasn’t brave enough to tell Mom she killed her baby brother by accident.

Not today, though. Putting on Bennu’s skin and _dying_ in Bennu’s skin had taken too much out of her. She needed to gather her strength, needed to prepare herself, and then strike hard and fast. Aza would be anticipating her escalation… unless he hadn’t figured it out it was her yet in which case he was a stupid idiot.

Bluebird chuckled breathlessly to herself, closing her eyes. It’d been a while since she butted heads with her baby brother like this. It made what would have been a boring assassination pretty fun. It would be interesting to see who would win this game though. After all, Aza had to be lucky _many_ times to save his stupid King, but Bluebird, well…

She only had to be lucky _once_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I do not know how Miqo’te socialise,” Lord Borel said once they were alone. He had no weapon on him, but Aza felt wary all the same, “But is it normal for your kind to come to tea dressed for war?”
> 
> “Yes,” Aza said a mite curtly. You would be an idiot to march into some stranger’s yurt without armour and some antidote in your pocket, “It is if it is tea with Ba- Elezens.”

Ash swirled like a cloud around Aymeric, cloying and hot and stinging, his eyes burning as his hands slipped over the leather grip of his longsword, buried hilt deep between Bennu’s ribs. Boiling blood gushed out, and the beast screamed as it tumbled down, dragging him with it. Aymeric fell with it, its wings arched high around him, the fiery glowing feathers dulling, dulling, dulling until they were pure white, like fresh snow at the beginning of winter and just as cool to the touch. The white wings cradled him and Aymeric was still falling, but there was no Bennu beneath him now.

Darkness gaped below him and something, _something_ , inside of him knew, _knew_ , that he should not fall into it.

But Aymeric was falling – his body ached, his hands were red in the Bennu’s blood, the leather of his vambraces cracked and charred from the heat, and he blindly groped for something to grasp. His sword was gone. The Bennu was gone. It was just him falling, falling, with these white wings cradling him, beating clumsily and uneven, some feathers flying loose and crumbling to ash. The Darkness came closer.

The Darkness grew teeth.

The Darkness grew sharp, curving horns.

The Darkness grew smouldering scarlet eyes.

The Darkness grew a mouth, open and glowing red.

The Darkness grew a voice, that growled at him like the rumblings of the earth, in a language he knew but didn’t. It said his name.

Aymeric knew its name then too.

He tried to speak it.

The Darkness drowned him out with a scream of agonised fury, lunging up with that burning red mouth, jaws crunching _down_ on his wing and _tearing_ -

“ _Wake up_! Aymeric!”

Aymeric jerked awake with a shuddering gasp, drenched in a cold sweat and lying sprawled on his bed with his blankets trapped around his legs, Estinien leaning over him with a hand on his shoulder. For a delirious, terrified moment, all Aymeric could think was, _my wings, my wings, he broke my wings,_ before he remembered he had none in the first place, never would, and felt an odd stab of loss. What had he even been dreaming? The details of the nightmare slid away, until all he remembered were cruel eyes and sharp fangs and red eyes and thought, _Behemoth, I must’ve remembered… Behemoth…_

“Aymeric?” Estinien was still leaning over him. He was frowning, but even in Aymeric’s groggy, confused state he could read the worry in his eyes, “Are you well? You were shouting in your sleep.”

“Just… a nightmare,” Aymeric said roughly, pushing himself up. Estinien leaned away, and Aymeric let out a low grunt of pain. His chest and back were throbbing dully, but it was his arms that hurt the most. Once he struggled to rest against the headboard, he looked down to see them wrapped in soft, lightly damp linen.

“They were burned. The worst of them were healed, though the Chirugeon says you’ll have a scar on your left,” Estinien answered his unsaid question. He was hovering by the bedside and looking awkward by it. He never was good whenever Aymeric was hurt, with the bedside manner of a frozen rock at the best of times. Right now, Estinien was still dressed in his Dragoon armour, though his lance was nowhere to be seen, his helmet out of sight, “Your ribs were a mess, though. What were you doing, letting that monstrous bird dance a jig on your chest?”

“I was thrown by a Behemoth’s horn…” Aymeric said distractedly, trying to figure out what on earth happened. The Bennu, out in the countryside. Aza wounded, bleeding, about to be cut open from sternum to groin, so he charged in and… “Aza. Is Aza-?”

Estinien’s expression soured, “Yes, the Beastman is fine. Freakishly so.”

“What?”

Estinien ran a hand through his hair, mussing the pale tresses. After a moment of consideration, he sat down on the edge of Aymeric’s bed, clasping his hands together as he looked at him seriously, “I arrived in time to kill the- the ‘Bennu’, or whatever the Hell it was, before you two perished. I took that Beastman as prisoner-”

“Prisoner?” Aymeric blurted, “ _Estinien_ , no! He helped me, he-”

“Spare me, I know,” Estinien muttered, “Lord Borel has accepted his explanation, if only because Lord Rouvoux sent a letter that collaborated his tale. And because I know you would fret otherwise, he is now your father’s honoured guest. He’s been set up in the Maple guest room, where he is no doubt stealing all our silverware as we speak.”

“Estinien,” Aymeric chided with a frown, but was deeply relieved. Aza was fine. He managed to save him from certain death, thank Halone, “Is his injury healed? Is he bedridden?”

“ _Bedridden_ ,” Estinien snorted, “I told you, he’s _freakishly_ fine. I thought I would be delivering a corpse to your father when I first spied his injury. But no. By the time we got to the Chirugeon, his wound was no more than a deep gash, scabbed over like it was a few days old. Some strange Beastman magic, most like. He drank no potions, and that magical Chocobo of his didn’t cast any healing spells on him, so only the Fury knows how his wound healed so well on its own.”

“I see…” Aymeric said slowly, perturbed. Such abilities weren’t natural, but Aza did say he wasn’t a normal man. He pushed the worry aside for now, not wanting to judge him. Aza so far had defied the expected template of Beastman behaviour, so perhaps there was an innocent explanation for it, like a magical charm that enhanced regeneration or something.

“Aymeric,” Estinien said after a brief pause between them, “Do you trust him?”

“I’ve only known him for a little over a day,” Aymeric admitted, “So I wouldn’t say I _trust_ him but… at least, I know he wants to keep me alive.”

“Yes, he said you paid him…” Estinien narrowed his eyes at him, “With what? Money?”

“…” Aymeric knew this was going to go over badly, but he took a deep breath and said, “Ah, no, I promised him a… a King’s Favour.”

Estinien stared at him for a long moment.

“A King’s Favour,” his friend repeated slowly, “A _favour_.”

“Yes,” Aymeric muttered irritably, “That’s what I said.”

“You’re a fool,” Estinien said bluntly, “He can ask for anything.”

“That’s the point of an open-ended favour, yes.”

Estinien took a moment to (rather overdramatically, in Aymeric’s opinion) cover his face with his hands and lament Aymeric’s naïve foolishness.

“Oh, this will go poorly,” Estinien muttered into his palms, “A King’s Favour for a _Beastman._ The High House nobles would choke on their outrage.” He paused at that, lowering his hands, “Actually…”

Aymeric weakly punched him, ignoring the stab of pain from the ambitious movement, “It will be fine. Aza said that he only cared for pragmatic things, so most like he would ask for supplies, not anything scandalous.”

“Or he may ask for land to set up one of those Beastmen tribes on Eorzean soil,” Estinien said.

“Would that be so bad?” Aymeric asked him, “All we have heard about Miqo’te are biased stories based around a bad few. Aza himself has been nothing but kind and forthcoming with me, working as an honest adventurer, so if we think most are like him-”

“They’re not,” Estinien said, “Aymeric, you’re a bit sheltered, so you won’t know this, but… during my early days of Dragoon training, I was required to join the guard patrols in the outer villages. Every time we encountered Beastmen, they were thieves and conmen, poaching game that didn’t belong to them or robbing innocent travellers. This ‘Aza’ of yours seems to be the _exception_.”

Aymeric frowned, “Every time? I don’t believe that.”

“Believe what you will. Just know to be wary around your new friend. He may be all smiles and friendliness, but if someone gives him a counter-offer for your _head_ … do you think he would take it?”

Aymeric didn’t know the answer to that, but he’d rather face Bennu all over again than admit it to Estinien and suffer his smugness. So, he just pressed his lips together, displeased, and said, “I want to see Aza. See that he is truly fine.”

“Aymeric, you’re still injured,” Estinien groaned.

“I’m fine,” Aymeric said, kicking his covers entirely off his legs and swinging them off the edge of the bed, narrowing avoiding hitting Estinien in the process. He still felt weak and shaky, a queer chill washing over him from time to time, but he managed to get to his feet. He was dressed in just his small clothes, and Aymeric could see that his chest was a pattern of mottled sea-green and off-yellow bruising that continued over his side and towards his back. There were a few scabbed over cuts and scrapes too, but otherwise he seemed to be in good health. Just _sore_.

It could be worse, he realised. The Bennu had been emitting so much heat it was a miracle he wasn’t covered in second degree burns. He should be grateful he managed to escape _three_ separate assassination attempts with only light burns on his arms and broken ribs, honestly.

Estinien sighed and pushed up off the bed, “Let me help you get dressed.”

It was a bit embarrassing – healed or not, Aymeric’s muscles were sore and tight enough that he struggled to pull his tunic on by himself, his fingers stiff and clumsy with the buttons. Estinien helped him without a word, dressing him in a plain (for a noble) dark tunic with silver trim and breeches, and offered him his arm as they exited his bedroom – no doubt against Chirugeon’s orders, but he and Estinien never really paid those any heed.

It was surreal being home after all that happened over the last two days. Had it only been two days since he had set off, being nervous about a long journey to inherit a crown he never even wanted? It felt like a lifetime ago. Now he was back where he started, with an assassin that could send fantastical beasts after him and having to make the journey with a man he only half-trusted and barely knew. The Holy See would need to be sent a letter by Postmoogle, to know he would be delayed…

If only those stories about the Royal Blood being that of Dragons were true, Aymeric thought wistfully, he could just fly to the Holy See and be done with this whole thing.

(At the thought of wings, though, he had a flicker of a memory, of dark jaws crushing down on a delicate white wing and tearing it apart – but it was gone before he clearly grasped it, and left him with an odd sense of unease and a sharp throb in his back)

* * *

It was a few hours after being dumped in the ‘guest room’ (read: fancy prison cell) that Aza was called for.

By then Aza had taken a much-needed power nap and a much-needed _bath_. After the first hour of being confined to the room, the knights had hauled his belongings to the room – everything, thankfully, so Aza hadn’t been _robbed_ – and one of them had kindly told him that his Chocobo was convalescing well in the stables. The knights treated him with a distant sort of courtesy, unfailingly polite but watching him with wary, suspicious eyes. It made Aza miss Aymeric and his easy trust.

But instead Aza had taken his needed bath, had his power nap, and changed into clean, fresh armour. He replaced the torn, blooded silken undershirt with a new one, and threw his thick, dark gambeson on top, buckling a dark steel breastplate as well. He wore padded leather trousers and shin high, dark boots with steel toecaps. Aza switched weapons as well – the greatsword was too cumbersome in the confines of a building’s hallways, so he slung a longsword to his hip, as well as a set of daggers, just in case. He even had his ‘dagger-bracer’, as Bluebird termed it, disguised as part of his thick, leather gloves. Anyone tried to restrain him by grabbing his arm would get a nasty and sharp surprise. After a moment of thought, he put his Behemoth helm on too, taking comfort in the warm metal covering his face, hiding him from the world. Like this he was fearsome, intimidating, strong.

By that point the sun was beginning to set, and it was raining all over again. Thunder grumbled and muttered, which kept Aza on edge, but so long as the lightning wasn’t flashing too close, then he knew they were safe and Bluebird wasn’t pulling out her Trump card just yet. Not that she would any time soon. Dying in Bennu’s skin would exhaust her aether for a few days at the very least, so they had some breathing room for now.

Someone knocked on the door, and before Aza could call out, Knight Folinne walked in. She was fully armoured in thick steel plate, and she kept her hand close to her sword – she was wise not to trust him, but the open distrust still rankled.

“Lord Borel requests your presence for tea, Ser Aza,” Knight Folinne said, her voice muffled behind the steel visor of her helmet.

“Tea,” Aza said, letting his tone say what he thought of _that_. Still, he didn’t protest. He hadn’t eaten since those apple chips in the morning, and his stomach was a gnawing pit of starvation at that point. So, he nodded and said, “Okay. I will go.”

She led him through the confusing, winding hallways of this too big house to a nice, small room that looked to be purely for drinking tea. There was a lovely, oaken table set up next to a large and wide window, the garden that Aza’s room overlooked just beyond it. Rain was trickling down the glass now, and the sky was lit up like it was on fire, streaks of orange, red and gold staining the horizon. It cast the room in a peculiar glow.

Lord Borel was sat waiting for him. His dark eyes watched him without a hint of expression as Knight Folinne all but frogmarched Aza into his seat, like she thought he didn’t know how chairs worked. He sat stiffly, carefully sweeping his tail to the side, and let his hands rest on his lap. His longsword dangled just so, and it would easy enough for him to draw it if need be. There was an empty china cup before him and a teapot with steam wisping from its spout. Aza touched neither of them.

“I do not know how Miqo’te socialise,” Lord Borel said once they were alone. He had no weapon on him, but Aza felt wary all the same, “But is it normal for your kind to come to tea dressed for war?”

“Yes,” Aza said a mite curtly. You would be an idiot to march into some stranger’s yurt without armour and some antidote in your pocket, “It is if it is tea with Ba- Elezens.”

If Lord Borel noticed the near slur, he did not react, “Will you at least remove your helm?”

Aza was silent and did not move.

“I see why you and Estinien knock heads so,” Lord Borel said wryly, “Stubborn as rocks with too much pride for common sense. I suppose you detest small talk as well?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I don’t have the patience to play coy,” Lord Borel said, pouring himself some tea, “Ser Aza, what did my son pay you?”

Aza was very wary now. Lord Borel was as emotive as a wall. His dark, weather-beaten face was difficult to read, and his eyes were sharp and watchful. He was nothing like Aymeric, whose expression always carried a hint of friendliness and earnestness to it, and quick to smile. With Aymeric, Aza could read him like a book – or at least, knew his sort enough to predict what he’d be like. Lord Borel… he was a dangerous uncertainty and had the power to make things difficult for him.

“He paid me… he gave me a favour,” Aza said carefully, “If I get Em to Ishgard, to sit on throne and be king, he will give me a favour.”

“A favour,” Lord Borel seemed to mull over this, unlike Aymeric, who considered the consequences quickly but discarded them just as fast, “And… what would you use this favour for?”

“I have not thought of it yet,” Aza lied breezily, relieved he kept his helmet on. He was sweating nervously, anxious not to be caught out, “Maybe I will ask for money. Or a stable of Chocobos. Or a house. I have not thought it yet. It is like wish, yes? I should not waste it on useless thing.”

“Hmmm,” was all Lord Borel said.

Aza waited tensely, curling his hands into tight fists against his thighs as Lord Borel took a long, slow sip of his tea.

“Fair enough,” Lord Borel finally said, setting his cup down with a quiet _chnk_ , “Now, the next thing: this _Vargr_. What are they and how do you intend to protect Aymeric from them?”

Aza relaxed when they steered into less dangerous waters, letting out a short breath, “Vargr are… wolves?”

“A wolf?”

“No, that is what name means, in Eorzean. They are… they have beasts,” Aza paused, wondering whether to leave it there, but… no, he dare not be caught out on the lie, even one of omission, “They tame them. They starve and break them, so they can wear their skin- no, they _be_ them. The Behemoth, the Bennu, they were Vargr. Vargr look through eyes, push beast-brain to do smart things, not… beast things. Only a little, though. Vargr spend too much time in beasts to be too smart. Low cunning, yes? Except…”

“Yes?”

“This one is… cautious,” Aza said slowly, “This one plans. They _ambush_. They have powerful beasts. They are… a rare Vargr. Very rare. To have King Behemoth and Bennu. They will have another one. More. Stronger. More dangerous. Em will not survive, if I do not go with him, yes? Yes. Normal Elezen will die before Vargr Beasts.”

Lord Borel studied him for a long moment, “You know these Vargr very well.”

“I fight them often,” Aza said carefully.

“Are they common in the Wastes?”

“They…” Aza hesitated, “In a way. In certain parts.”

“You seem very nervous,” Lord Borel noted, his voice mild as milk though his eyes were painfully sharp.

Aza didn’t speak immediately. He felt like he was walking into a trap of some kind, but Lord Borel did not seem very concerned or tense, like he was trying to lead him into anything. He wore no weapons and had sent his guards outside. Aza had not drunk or touched anything. If anything, Lord Borel was careless and stupidly trusting, to sit here before a heavily armed stranger with no way to defend himself. It rubbed Aza’s instincts all wrong.

“I am not… comfortable in Elezen home,” Aza said, choosing his words with care, “I am used to… scorn? Yes, scorn, and distrust. Like with Horsefa- ah, Est… Esty. Elezens dislike us. I am waiting to see what you will do.”

“You think I would abuse a guest in my home?” Lord Borel said, raising one thick eyebrow, “I will be frank: I distrust you, but you have proven yourself true so far. Or rather, proven that you want my son alive more than you want him dead.”

Aza said nothing in response to that.

“Tell me true: will you protect him against anything and everything as he travels to the Holy See to claim his crown?” Lord Borel asked him, pinning him down with that intense stare, “Because you say you are defending him… and yet Estinien found my son with one foot in Halone’s halls while you still stood.”

Aza looked away at that, angry at himself. Yes, he’d failed on that front. He got cocky and overconfident, and thought he was better than Bluebird. He _was_ but… he underestimated how much she had improved too. He paid for it, and if he had been by himself, Bluebird would have gutted him for his arrogance and left him to fester in the wilderness for a few days to humble him. But he hadn’t been alone, and if it hadn’t been for Aymeric taking his own rescue into his own hands, and the timely arrival of Estinien…

“Brute strength means nothing, if it is not tempered with discipline,” Lord Borel said, “Ser Aza, I will admit that I am biased against your people. For decades, the only time I have seen Beastmen are when my knights arrest them for thievery and poaching. Considering your recent actions, I’m willing to give you a chance… if you’re suitable for the task.”

 _I bet most of those Miqo’te weren’t thieves or poachers. Just unfortunate scapegoats for bored Bald-Ears_ , Aza thought bitterly, but didn’t let it show in his voice when he said, “I am suitable.”

“Are you?” Lord Borel smiled wryly, “You have been reliable so far, but as I said before: I distrust you. An old man’s prejudice, perhaps. Therefore, Ser Aza, I will permit you to continue guarding my son under the supervision of my Dragoon, Estinien.”

Aza grimaced behind his helm, saying nothing for a long moment. The mistrust angered him, and he clenched his fists so tight his fingers hurt. He knew it. Even though Aza had bled for, and protected this man’s adoptive son, he was still just the untrustworthy _Beastman_. At least Lord Borel had the balls to say it straight to his face. He could respect the man for his frankness.

“Fine,” he muttered, realising he had no choice in the matter. Best to give in gracefully… and he may have need of the Dragoon when Bluebird took out her Trump card, “I understand.”

“You will be well-supplied for your journey to the capital,” Lord Borel continued, either oblivious or ignoring Aza’s obvious displeasure, “And should you prove yourself true, I will owe you a ‘favour’ as well. A knighthood, or land, perhaps? You could be the first titled Miqo’te in service to House Borel.”

 _I would sooner fistfight Bluebird’s monsters,_ Aza thought sourly. What would he do with land and a title out here? No doubt he would be made a mockery of by the snobbish elite and lowly peasants alike, and it wasn’t as if he could have any children to inherit the title and begin a generations long campaign of ending discrimination against Miqo’te from inside the system. It was a trap – a clear trap to ensure he’d be this family’s attack dog, with titles and loyalties as his leash, and Aza refused to fall for it.  

“Maybe,” was all he said though. Let the clever old man think Aza was susceptible to the trap. He was less likely to think of an alternative one.

Lord Borel nodded, clearly satisfied, “Then we agree? You will continue onto the Holy See with Aymeric and Estinien, and guard him with your life.”

“With my life,” Aza echoed, smiling in dark amusement. Yes, his life, “I will do this. Em will sit on throne and I will kill anything that stands in the way. I promise.”

No sooner had the words passed his lips, did the sky outside split open with a flash of white lightning, and the rain outside _poured_.

* * *

Settert cursed softly as his foot sunk shin deep in the boggy ground. The rain was coming down so hard he couldn’t even see three feet in front of him, his oiled cloak soaked through within minutes, and he was out here patrolling the merchant road by Willowed Wood _by himself_. They normally did it in pairs, but fucking Nettianne darted off for a piss about thirty minutes ago and hadn’t come back. Either she was taking a shit in the bushes in this rain, or she was already halfway back to the patrol hut laughing. Well, he’ll see who’s laughing when he drowned her in one of these fucking bogs.

The lantern in his hand was beginning to dim, the oil running low. A pathetic, pale ring of orange shone before him, lighting up exactly _nothing_ , but… light was light, and Settert was leery of wandering on this road in the dark. He could see Willowed Woods looming before him, the trees towering and dark, silhouetted whenever the lightning cracked through the dark sky. There was always something _off_ about those woods, with the weird noises and queer disappearances at night, but Settert knew them to be stories of drunken hunters seeing monsters in the shadows. He had patrolled this road since his very first day of knighthood, and all he had ever seen were trees, more trees, the occasional fox and oil, and, oh, more trees.

Settert struggled his way onto the road, slick gravel crunching beneath his boots. He was on the merchant road, and he walked towards Willowed Woods. He could see the flattened ground just to the side where Lord Aym- ah, _King_ Aymeric had made camp before departing inside. It was all swampy ground now, and Settert turned away from it, pausing at the threshold into the woods. The merchant’s road was swallowed up by a darkness so thick it almost looked opaque, like if he reached out he would touch some physical _thing_. Instead he shivered, bundled up more into his drenched oiled cloak, and turned away.

The light in his lantern spluttered out.

“Oh, bugger me,” he cursed, shaking it a few times. It was out. Darkness surrounded him, his breath misting as rain thundered the soaked ground. Well, he felt that meant the patrol could end early. He might get chewed out for not bringing enough oil for the lantern, but he’d take the tongue lashing if it meant getting out of this rain early. It wasn’t as if there was anything to _see_ anyways. No monster ever wandered out of the Willowed Woods, no matter what soused up tales frightened hunters brought them.

Settert took a step. Lightning flashed, and he saw two shadows stretched before him. His own and another.

He froze.

There was a crunch of wet gravel behind him.

Settert gripped the lantern’s handle tight, his free hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. He loosened it from its scabbard as he turned, and there, barely visible in the dark, was a figure so small he almost took it to be a child. But lightning flashed again, and he saw: a heavy, white bull skull with a thick mane of dark hair spilling around it, black horns sweeping from beneath it like a Behemoth’s, a lithe, skinny body dressed in dark, soaked leather armour, and the flick of what he thought was a tail – but the lightning died too quick, and he remained in place, staring at the short, skull wearing creature in bafflement.

“Hello?” he asked awkwardly, “Are you a traveller? Are you lost?”

The creature stepped forwards. There was a faint glimmer of red in the empty sockets of that bull skull.

“S-Stay back,” Settert said, almost tripping over himself as he backed up over the wet gravel, swinging his lantern out before remembering that wasn’t his sword – _then_ half-drew his blade as loudly as he could, an audible warning, “I am a knight of House Borel. I guard this road, ser. So, identify yoursel-”

The lightning flashed again. The creature was suddenly right in front of him, their eyes burning like hateful coals, their small yet strong hands grabbing him and-

Drowned out by the rain and lightning, no one heard Settert scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my internet is so bad rn you guys pls send help
> 
> also yup we're having a road trip with Aza, Aym and Esty. WHATEVER COULD GO WRONG???? Also the poll is still open for what peeps want relationship wise :3
> 
> Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aymeric,” Estinien’s exasperated voice brought him out of his thoughts, “I know that look. A Beastman, for Halone’s sake.”
> 
> “There is no sin in looking,” Aymeric said without a shred of shame.

When Aymeric and Estinien reached Aza’s room, it was empty.

His belongings were neatly stacked next to the double bed, and the armour he had worn when Aymeric met him was laid out on the bed. The chainmail coat was ruined – the tightly linked steel chains were split neatly apart on the side where Bennu’s claws had sliced through, and whilst the rain had washed the metal clean of spilled blood, the quilted fabric underneath was stained a dark brown. A silken undershirt resting next to the chainmail coat looked even more ghastly, with a sizeable tear along its side and almost half of it stained with long since dried blood. The leather breeches were stained down one leg as well, a darker shade of brown and stiff with dried blood.

“I hope he’s planning to dispose of those,” Estinien muttered, easing Aymeric down on the armchair next to the room’s hearth, “Or do you think he’d try to fix it? Patch in the chainmail?”

“New armour isn’t cheap,” Aymeric murmured, feeling mildly uncomfortable at the thought. High-quality armour was expensive, with only nobles able to afford them. Anything better than the common steel variety loaned out to knights and guards required a heavy purse, and most hedge knights and adventurers tended to prefer the more cost-effective, albeit less protective, boiled leather variety of armour. Aza however… his armour had been very good, considering. Perhaps selling off Behemoth materials raked in enough funds for it?

Estinien moved over to the bed and picked up the chainmail armour. Compared to his friend’s tall, lanky frame, the armour looked like it was sized for a child – albeit a child with broad-shoulders. Estinien thoughtfully fingered where the chains were split apart, seemingly uncaring of the dried blood on the fabric underneath.

“Sliced through like it was cheap steel… but this isn’t cheap steel,” Estinien admitted grudgingly, “This is _chromite_. Where would a common adventurer get the money to pay for _this_?”

“Maybe he makes a living selling Behemoth parts,” Aymeric said, “Unless you think he stole it.”

“No. It’s too well-fitting on him to be anything but commissioned,” Estinien set the chainmail down, “But it is difficult to believe one so small is able to kill a Behemoth singlehandedly, let alone make a business of it. He’s almost half our size. Where does he hide that strength?”

“He’s bulkier than he looks beneath the armour,” Aymeric said, remembering back to that quiet moment in the clearing, at the spring they bathed in, remembering the Miqo’te’s strong, muscled body, his broad shoulders and how his waist tapered in slightly, to curvy hips and a firm ru-

“Aymeric,” Estinien’s exasperated voice brought him out of his thoughts, “I know that look. A _Beastman_ , for Halone’s sake.”

“There is no sin in looking,” Aymeric said without a shred of shame, “By the way, you were wrong about where the tail comes out. It doesn’t come out from between the buttocks. It’s like this,” he curled one hand into a fist, and used his other hand to place his finger in between the knuckle, “The tail starts just before the cleft of the-”

“You were even looking at his _arse_ ,” Estinien groaned, placing a hand over his eyes as if unable to bear Aymeric’s deviant ways – though the slight upturn of his mouth betrayed him, “Lord Borel should have sent you to a _cloister_ when he caught you in the stables all those years ago.”

“He caught me with _you_ , if you recall,” Aymeric chuckled. This was an old joke between them, one that had Lord Borel giving them both a weary, disgruntled stare whenever he overheard them. Their scandalous, passionate fling when they were younger and stupider would have been an issue if they were in the capital, but out here in the farmlands, Aymeric had the luck of no one paying much mind to what their ‘Noble Farmers’ got up to so long as it didn’t bring Inquisitors down on their heads.

“Too true. We’re lucky he didn’t send us both, could you imagine? We would have been excommunicated for deviancy within a month,” Estinien huffed good naturedly, before he sobered, “But a Beastman, Aymeric, that is…”

“I’m not that foolish,” he cut him off, “For one he’s in my employ. It would be an abuse of power to… no, I only looked. That’s all.”

“Hmm,” Estinien gave him a long look, but thankfully dropped the issue, “I do wonder where that stray has wandered off to-”

_‘BOOM!’_

They both jumped when the thunder abruptly roared out, followed by the dull hush of rain cascading down the window. They both turned to look to see the dark sky outside, blotting out the weakening, orange-pink rays of the setting sun. In the distance, lightning flashed and flared, thunder grumbling and growling with it.

“That came in quick,” Estinien remarked.

“Oddly so…” Aymeric murmured, remembering how Aza had flinched and cringed when they stepped out of the Willowed Woods to the rumbling sky. He had been frightened, though Aymeric had been too self-absorbed in his own pain to ask him why. He had a sudden worry that it would herald something, some strange monster from the Wastes, perhaps? He recalled Aza mentioning something… a Thunderbird or…?

It was cold too. The only thing lighting the room was the lone crystal lamp set on the bedside table. The lightning aspected crystal was a bright, steadily glowing purple, casting a pale lilac tint to the room. Aymeric slouched a little in his seat, shivering.

Estinien noticed, “Cold? You should have said something. I’ll start a fire in the hearth.”

“There’s no need to trouble yourse-” Aymeric began, only to sigh when Estinien just openly ignored him and walked over to the hearth, crouching before it. “Or do.”

“You’re injured and feverish, if that corpse impression you’re doing is any indication,” Estinien said, tossing a few of the logs into the ashy floor of the hearth and then setting it alight with the fire aspected crystal. He prodded at the sluggishly burning logs with a poker until it started to catch in earnest, sending a pleasant rush of warmth over Aymeric, “I should just take you back to your room before you faint.”

“Don’t,” Aymeric grumbled, stretching his legs out. They felt stiff, but out of everything they hurt the least. He still didn’t relish the thought of moving, “I order you no.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Estinien mocked, pushing himself to his feet, “Hold on, I’ll be back in a moment. I’ll grab you something warmer than that flimsy tunic of yours.”

His friend was teasing him now, “I’m not a doddering old invalid about to expire from a mild chill.”

“You seem fairly doddering and very much an invalid to me,” Estinien shot back, and strode away before Aymeric could get a word in edgewise.

“Brat,” Aymeric muttered as his friend left the room, but was internally very relieved about the fire now crackling merrily in the fireplace. He soaked up the warmth, looking at the window to see the rain running down in thick sheets of water over the glass, flashes of bright light in the distance. He still felt exhausted and achy and clammy, but Gods, he was so glad to be home. It was a welcome respite from the stress and horror of the past two days – one? – time had just blurred together, so he was finding it difficult to recall what happened when. It was only this morning, wasn’t it, when he woke up to a misty clearing with Aza at his shoulder. He woke up very warm, he remembered. Then it had been the agony of trudging through those woods, then the muddy roads, then Aza tackling him from those outstretched claws…

The bright blossom of red against Aza’s side.

Aymeric looked over at the chainmail on the bed.

Bracing himself, he heaved himself out of the warm, comfy armchair. He ached, but he carefully shuffled over towards the bed and away from the crackling hearth. He picked up the armour, touching where the chains had split apart much like Estinien did. Flakes of dried blood broke away from the quilted fabric underneath, dotting his bandaged hands with little spots of rusty brown.

The smell of metal was strong. The amount of blood soaked into this, the breeches, the silken undershirt… Aza should be bedridden and convalescing, even if pumped full of potions and under the skilled hands of a Chirugeon. He _remembered_ how blood had run from Aza’s wound like water from a sponge, bright red that ran pink in the rain…  

Healed in a few hours without the aid of magic until it was nothing more than scabbed over gash.

Aza had been covered with scars, though. Some were thick and ropey, others pale and thin, but he was littered with them. If he had such regenerative abilities, then how…?

The bedroom door opened, and Aymeric turned to greet Estinien – only to pause when Aza stood in the doorway instead, his Behemoth helm snarling at him. The light of the fire cast strange shadows over it.

“Em,” Aza said after a moment’s quiet between them, “You should be resting.”

“I’m well enough,” he said, setting the chainmail down on the bed.

“You are pale like dead man,” the Miqo’te chided, sounding scarily like Estinien for a moment. Aza walked over to him and, without a hint of hesitation, began bullying him back to the armchair next to the fire. He was gentle about it – gently pushing him – but Aymeric grumbled and huffed about it all the same.

“I’m not dying anymore,” Aymeric complained.

“Still close. Vargr could come crashing through window and stab you. Then you would be very dead,” Aza said. He was standing next to his armchair, the only thing visible about him being his bright, yellow eyes through his visor. The armour he was wearing was more form-fitting than the chainmail coat, the gambeson following the curve of his near hourglass figure, his padded breeched taut over well-muscled thighs, “Em is weak like kitten too. Will die in less than three seconds, most like.”

“Three? That’s higher than I thought it’d be,” Aymeric muttered, his mouth feeling suddenly dry at Aza looming over him like this. He looked into the fire instead, which was less likely to cause any awkward bodily reactions, “Are you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Aza seemed taken aback by the sudden question.

“Your helm… I thought, if you’re wearing it inside… I noticed you seemed reticent when we met the guards before.”

“You still remember?” Aza sounded mystified, but after a pause Aymeric heard the rustle of him removing his helmet. Against his better judgement he looked back at him.

Aza’s hair was mussed from where it had been tucked into the helmet, stray wisps and locks of hair threatening to spill out of his loose braid. It glimmered like gold from the fireplace, catching Aymeric’s eye before he turned his appreciative stare to the Miqo’te’s face instead. Once again, he kept being caught by Aza’s handsomeness; almond-shaped eyes with thick, dark eyelashes, an inviting mouth with a full bottom lip, a darkly tanned face with the curious markings that began from the corners of his eyes. His face was almost heart shaped, and Aymeric would even say he looked _beautiful_ but… some base instinct still whispered _dangerous_ to him.

“You almost seemed shy. It stuck out to me, even with Bennu determined to crush me between its claws,” Aymeric said wryly.

Aza was holding the helm between his gloved hands, and he looked down at it thoughtfully, “I am… yes, I am nervous around Bald-Ears when… there is more of them.”

“I see…” Aymeric studied him. Aza was frowning, his ears slightly tilted back, “You can relax here, Aza. Estinien has assured me that my father has decided you’re a guest, so no one will-”

“I know,” Aza cut in. He looked up from the helm, his mouth twisted into a grimace, “I had ‘tea’ with him. Your father. He is… difficult to… read? Is that the saying?”

“Yes,” Aymeric chuckled a bit, “He is somewhat taciturn but, he is a good man, a fair one. If he came across as standoffish, don’t take it to heart.”

“He was blunt,” Aza said, “He said he did not trust me. So, if we go to put you on throne, we have to take Horseface.”

Aymeric blinked slowly, “Horseface…?”

Aza wrinkled his nose cutely, “ _Esty_ ,” he muttered, “Rude man. Has lance up arse. Horseface.”

“Oh,” Aymeric had to hold his breath for a moment, before he let out a rather unflattering snort of laughter and aggravate his poor ribs, “Erm, yes, he… he does come across as that at first, but, he is a good man too.” Then he realised what Aza had actually _said_ , “Wait – he is _accompanying_ us to the capital?”

“Yes,” Aza looked irritated, “Just us. Us three. Your father, he says he will speak to Horseface about it. Probably say ‘watch out for Beastman’. I cannot be trusted. He said so.”

Aymeric’s mirth started to face away, realising Aza was genuinely upset, “Aza…”

“It is fine. I am used to it,” Aza clipped his helmet to his belt, though he kept a hand on it as he turned a sharp eye onto Aymeric, “Are you okay? You are grey.”

“I’m fine,” Aymeric sighed, “What about yourself? When I… you were badly wounded before, and your armour…”

Aza smiled at him, “I heal fast.”

“You heal fast.”

“I said I was not normal man,” Aza told him mischievously, turning away from him to pick up the hearth’s poker. He prodded at the logs, sending a few embers floating up. Despite himself Aymeric flinched slightly, “I heal fast. It is unfair advantage, yes? Yes. But useful one.”

“How…” Aymeric paused, trying to phrase his question, “How do you heal fast?”

Aza stabbed the poker into the fire, skewering a log. He was still smiling, but it was a tense, mirthless thing, his eyes dark, “Curse.”

“What?”

“Curse,” Aza repeated, pulling the poker free and setting it aside. He stared at it for a moment, “I am not-”

The door opened, “Aymeric, I- ah,” It was Estinien, carrying a folded up, thick blanket over his arm, “Our stray has graced us with his presence.”

Aza’s expression flattened, and he turned to give Estinien a look of disdain that would make the most snobbish of Ishgardian nobles proud, “Horseface.”

“ _Stray_ ,” Estinien returned, and the room’s temperature felt like it dropped several degrees as they glowered at each other.

Aymeric watched them with a dull stare, “Children.”

The ice broke. Estinien snorted, and Aza grumbled and broke the staring contest.

“Where’ve you been?” Estinien asked the Miqo’te, “With how shy and quiet you were, I would have thought you too afraid to leave your room.”

Aza ignored the barb, “Em’s father told me to have tea with him and we spoke. He said we are taking Em to capital together.”

“We?” Estinien repeated, then, “ _We_ as in… us three?”

“Yes.”

Estinien leaned back on his heels, frowning, “I would have thought with the loss of Asette and… he would leave the estate vulnerable.”

“Because he is Em’s father,” Aza said, like this explained everything, “It is what parents do.”

“I know many parents who would do otherwise,” Estinien muttered bitterly, “Whatever his reasons, I won’t protest them. It may be best to travel small if we’re to avoid this ‘Vargr’ anyways. Nothing is more conspicuous than an entourage of knights in shiny mail, waving your banner about, after all.”

Aymeric felt his stomach clench, and he thought back to his _first_ entourage, broken and dead in Willowed Woods still. He wondered if Lord Borel had sent knights to pick them up yet – or if this Lord Rouvoux had done it instead. He looked back into the fire, his queasiness chasing away whatever hunger he had before, “Yes. I suppose.”

Aza glanced at him with a small frown, something like understanding in his gaze, “I would not worry about Vargr for now. She would be too tired, after Bennu’s death. We have a few days of rest before new beast comes, I am sure.”

“She?” Estinien asked, his voice mild as milk, and Aymeric lifted his head when he realised the implication of that one, damning word.

Aza blinked, looking innocently puzzled, “Yes? She?”

“How do you know it’s a ‘she’?” Estinien asked doggedly.

“Oh,” Aza cocked his head, “Well. Only few Vargr have King Behemoth _and_ Bennu. And, even fewer who is cautious like this. In Wastes, we know the rare Vargr. _Dangerous_ Vargr. Need to. Or you will be eaten, yes? Yes.”

“You know who it is?” Aymeric asked.

“Ah, I have suspicion…” Aza suddenly looked reluctant now, “I hope I am wrong, but… yes, I guess… I know? I suspect? Yes, suspect.”

“Who do you _suspect_ it is?” Estinien pressed.

Aza shifted his weight, his hand brushing over his helmet. He looked wary, Aymeric realised, and he wondered if Aza thought he was going to be punished just for the crime of knowing their pursuer. No matter what suspicions Estinien was concocting in his mind, Aymeric thought it didn’t matter if Aza knew the assassin or not. Bennu had tried its damnest to kill Aza, so they were clearly not friendly or working together – and even if they were, then this was the most convoluted and bizarre assassination plot ever conceived.

“One of two,” Aza finally said, looking anywhere but them, “Atani or Ad- ah, Eorzean word is… _Bluebird_. She is… ah, they are both…”

 _He’s nervous_ , Aymeric realised, “Aza-”

“Spit it out,” Estinien drawled, “You have a stronger grasp of Common than _that_.”

Aza glared at him, then gritted out; “They are strong. I am not afraid of animal-fuckers. But they are not _animal-fuckers_. They are… strong Vargr. They are not normal, like me. Both _hate_ Bald-Ears, so will take job to kill you, but… I think it is Bluebird.”

“Why her?” Aymeric asked him curiously.

“Hrrrnn… reasons,” Aza said curtly. It was clear he wasn’t going to elaborate, “Just know: Bluebird is _clever_. Unlike most Vargr, that are dumb as beasts. She is clever. She is good at plotting. She was arrogant, with Behemoth and Bennu, but now she knows better. She will plan next move. We may die, most like.”

“Comforting,” Estinien said, his voice dry as dust, “Any tips on how to kill her?”

Aza’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing in a brief flash of anger. As quickly as it came, it vanished, and he turned his back on them to pick up the poker, stabbing at the burning logs. One of them split in half, its centre already charred embers, “No.”

Estinien opened his mouth to continue but stopped when Aymeric shook his head. Aza was tense as a drawn bowstring, and they were in _his_ room – it would be ill of them to press and harass him right now when he had nowhere to withdraw to. He was on their side, that was all they needed to know, surely?

“I’m famished,” Aymeric cut into the awkward silence, “Are you hungry, Aza?”

Reluctantly, Aza turned away from the fire, giving him a suspicious look as if expecting the innocent question to be a trap into an interrogation, “Yes…”

“Then let us show you the kitchens. I’m sure the head cook will be pleased to give you a sample of House Borel hospitality.”

“Aymeric,” Estinien grumbled.

Aza still looked wary, “I do not want to trouble…”

“It’ll be no trouble,” Aymeric heaved himself out of his armchair. He felt a bit woozy and clammy, but he was sure it was from hunger at this point. A bit of hot food would give him strength, he knew, “Estinien, put that blanket down and be my crutch for a moment.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Estinien rolled his eyes, but did as he was bid.

“Think of it as repayment for the stew,” Aymeric said as he took his friend’s arm. Slowly they moved out of the bedroom. Aza’s hand was on his helmet, but he didn’t put it on, “I insist on it.”

“Okay,” Aza said slowly, but he began to relax as they walked. Aymeric was relieved.

It also gave him something to think about other than his situation. Coaxing Aza out of his shell when interacting with more than one person was a pleasant distraction – his woes and worries will come to him when he went to bed that evening, he knew. So, focusing now on food and Aza’s pretty face and Estinien’s grumblings was… better.

Above them thunder snarled deafeningly loud and Aza flinched, but neither he nor Estinien reacted to it.

Hopefully the storm would pass before they began their journey, though. It’d be awful to outpace an assassin in this weather.  

* * *

“Great. They just dumped it into a ditch. How disrespectful of them.”

Bluebird toed the mangled corpse of her Bennu where it was rotting in a hastily dug hole in the middle of some barren field. It had clearly been dragged away from the village it had been lying in, and the men in charge of its disposal had scattered when the storm broke anew over their heads. The grey-feathered bird was half in the hole, its eyes long since pecked out by crows and an unpleasant smell beginning to waft from the sodden corpse. Putrefaction was beginning to set in, but thankfully there weren’t any maggots yet.

She withdrew a bright, glimmering crystal from the folds of an oil cloak she ‘liberated’.  

Four hapless Bald-Ears, she managed to ensnare when hiking out of the woods. These Elezens had _shit_ for aether, so what would’ve taken one, strong ‘Beastman’, ended up with her scraping whatever leavings she could get from these useless people. The Beast wouldn’t get here for another day or two, so to keep the pressure on her little brother, she needed to… recycle.

Thankfully, Bennu were _made_ to be recycled.

They were the imperfect Phoenix. Stories said they were the Allagans failed attempts to recreate the immortal bird and turn it into a weapon of war. Well, it ended up with a fire aspected Zu with a temperament as mean as a female Behemoth in heat, and the Allagans, as they normally did with their weapon-rejects, released them into what eventually became known as the Wastes, where the Miqo’te, Au Ra, Viera and all the other Beast Tribes had to deal with them ever since.  

However, massive failure or not, the Bennu were still _touched_ by Phoenix aether. With enough aether and enough skill, you could breathe life back into it, a little, kind of. They always came back wrong and weird and kind of fucked up, but Bluebird just needed a puppet for tomorrow morning. Whether it broke apart or turned completely fucked up, so long as it caused a _tiny_ bit of chaos and killed a Bald-Ear or two, Bluebird was content. She wanted that _King_ out of his hidey hole as fast as possible and flushing him out with an attack on his home was the best way to do it.

Smiling, Bluebird pushed up her bull-skull helm and leaned over her poor, dead Bennu.

And breathed life anew into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok yeah i'm too impatient for PURE SLOW BURN. i'm too weak. i just love writing aym thinking "fuck he's hot" too much. poor guy's gonna have to be content with his hand and an imagination for a while though. also the assassin trying to kill him constantly is a bit of a mood killer. also estinien is there. being estinien. 
> 
> Please comment/kudos if you've enjoyed!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Drinking alone is thought to be bad,” Aza said.
> 
> Aymeric didn’t jump like he thought he would. He stirred out of whatever daze he’d been in, glancing over at him with tired eyes.
> 
> “’Tis only a glass,” Aymeric said, his words a little slurred. Aza noticed the bottle then, almost empty sitting on the small table. Just a glass indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WORLDBUILDING TIME WOOOOOOOO

It was past midnight and Aza couldn’t sleep.

He was curled up by the window, perched on the cushioned windowsill as he looked out at the dark night. The thunder and lightning had thankfully abated to distance grumbles and flashes, but the rain remained, lashing at the window with a howling wind that sounded like it was trying its hardest to rip the roof from the estate. The trees in the garden outside flailed their branches around, and in the silvery shadows of Aza’s sight, they looked like ghosts dancing.

At this point the fire in the hearth had long since grown cold and a chill had begun to creep into the room. Ishgard was such a queer place when it came to cold. Even in the height of summer, there was a cold that lingered in the night – there was something almost unnatural about it, or maybe it was just how the land was. There was an overabundance of ice aspected crystals buried malms beneath the surface of Ishgard, it was said, though no scholar could explain why that was. It simply was.

It made him think of Snowcloak, the ravine filled with permafrost to the northwest. For over a thousand years it had sat there and hadn’t melted even a bit. He heard Ishgardians mined it for ice – Snowcloak ice had some sweet taste to it, and the workers that chipped at the ice swore that whatever holes and pits they made into that permafrost were always gone come the morn, frozen anew. No scholar could explain that mystery either.

There were many mysteries in Ishgard, truth be told. The Churning Mists, the capital itself – the citadel that sat amongst the steel grey clouds, a broiling mass of unstable lightning and wind aether screaming at its foundations – Snowcloak and the thick veins of ice crystals beneath the land’s crust, then you had the Sea of Clouds and the flying whale that was whispered to dance amongst the floating islands, and then Azys Lla, the impregnable flying fortress of the Allagans, brimming with ancient secrets that couldn’t be touched. It was an adventurer’s wet dream, to have such curious things to explore – it was just a shame the locals were such stuck up stiffs.

Aza rested his temple against the cold glass, curling up so his knees pressed against his chest and flicked his tail over his bare feet to keep his toes warm. This wasn’t his first foray into Ishgard. You had to go through it to get to the rest of Eorzea – unless you were willing to take a boat the long way around which was always a risk, due to how perilous the strait was along Eorzea’s cost. Sailors said sea serpents lived there or whispered that Midgardsormr slithered about those dark depths, brimming with a maddened fury towards all Spoken. _Those_ Aza knew to be merely stories. Midgardsormr had better things to do than torment superstitious smugglers and pirates braving the Eorzean strait.

He’d been tempted to take that route this time, to avoid the troubles of contending with the chilly locals, but Aza decided it was too expensive and too troublesome... plus Bluebird had called him a baby when he mentioned it to her in passing, so he _had_ to go into Ishgard proper or endure her mocking.

Bluebird.

That was a clusterfuck he didn’t want to touch.

His sister fucking with him wasn’t anything new – if a year went by without at least _one_ murder attempt from her, then there was something terribly wrong – but she made this whole situation more complicated than it needed to be. If Bluebird ever directly confronted them, he wouldn’t be able to life his blade against her… well, that was a lie, he could stab her a few times and maybe break a leg, but he couldn’t risk weakening her enough so that Horseface could kill her. His hesitance would be picked up, though, and then Aza would be proving Lord Borel right, that he couldn’t be trusted, and Aymeric would…

He would…

Aza turned away from the window, suddenly restless. He pushed away from the cushioned windowsill, moving towards his belongings to pick up his clothes. While he knew the guards in the estate wouldn’t randomly stab him in the hallway, Aza felt twitchy enough to don his armour and hitch a dagger to his belt just in case. He lingered over his helmet, his gloved fingers touching its snarling snout, before reluctantly going without it. He needed to stop using it as a crutch.

The hallway was dark when he stepped out into it, but he could hear the building creak and groan on its sturdy foundations as the storm thrashed around it. He realised he didn’t know where to go, so he just picked a direction and walked, glancing at the paintings on the walls. There were a few – mostly of pretty scenery and farmlands, but there were a few of people too. The past Lords and Ladies of House Borel, most likely, judging by how similar they all looked. They had the dark skin, the broad face and sharp jaw, the dark, straight hair, the dark eyes.

Aymeric looked like none of them.

Well, because he was adopted but Aza wondered how it must have felt for him, to grow up with these paintings and know that he didn’t share any common blood with them. He noticed how dissatisfied and bitter Aymeric had sounded when speaking of his bastardry, and whilst out in the Wastes family was family, shared blood or not, Ishgardians placed a lot of reverence on shared lineage. You _had_ to share blood, had to _stay_ with blood, even if that blood was poison. They got so hung up on it, when at the end of the day it was just a bodily fluid that didn’t mean much at all.

Well, unless it was _Dragon’s blood_ , of course. That was different.

Aza reached a split in the hallway and took a left, then down some stairs. He was on the ground floor now, and the hallway he was in now had wide, towering windows. Normally this would let you look at the garden at ground level, but in the dark all that could be seen were the shapes of shivering bushes and swaying trees. They cast odd shadows in what little ambient light could be given, from the occasional flash of distant lightning. Aza hurried along, disquieted by it.

A glow caught his attention, a sliver of light from under a closed door further down the hallway. Aza debated passing it by, but his nose caught a familiar scent: _Aymeric_. He hesitated, but he moved towards the door knowing that this wasn’t his bedroom. The quarters were on the upper levels, and this seemed like… one of the drawing rooms? Aymeric had given him a very quick, whirlwind tour after they had supper earlier, and Aza couldn’t remember what was where.

The door was ajar, and he nudged it open, making sure it didn’t squeak on its hinges. It looked to be one of the many sitting rooms House Borel had. It was small, but had two large squishy looking sofas, a squat table between them, and two armchairs crowding next to a low sitting window with a small table between them. Aymeric was sat in the armchair, looking out the pitch-dark window with a glass of red liquid in his hand. A quick sniff told Aza: _wine_.

“Drinking alone is thought to be bad,” Aza said.

Aymeric didn’t jump like he thought he would. He stirred out of whatever daze he’d been in, glancing over at him with tired eyes.

“’Tis only a glass,” Aymeric said, his words a little slurred. Aza noticed the bottle then, almost empty sitting on the small table. Just a glass indeed, “What’re you doing? It’s night.”

“What’re you doing?” Aza mimicked, closing the door behind him and moving closer. He felt relaxed around Aymeric. He never looked at him with fearful suspicion or wary disdain. In fact, he was blinking a little owlishly at him, like he wasn’t quite sure whether he was there or not, “Em is drunk, it seems.”

“A little drunk,” Aymeric corrected and took a large gulp from his glass, or rather, he tried to and almost slopped it over himself instead, “Oh, hm, no, maybe _very_ drunk…”

“Yes,” Aza laughed a little, smoothly taking a seat in the armchair opposite the Elezen. He made himself comfortable, “Is this normal? Should we keep alcohol locked up on our journey?”

“No, it’s just…” Aymeric slouched in his seat, looking back out the window. There were dark smudges underneath his eyes that spoke of trouble sleep, “Tonight is…”

He trailed off and didn’t finish.

“Bad dreams?” Aza asked him, gentling his tone.

“Something like that,” Aymeric said vaguely, clumsily setting the glass on the table. He didn’t spill it, and Aza reached out and pulled it out of his reach. Aymeric didn’t seem to care, “Odd dreams. They don’t… make sense.”

Aza waited, but Aymeric didn’t elaborate. A quiet fell between them – it wasn’t companionable as such, but it wasn’t awkward either. Aymeric stared out the window, his eyes heavy-lidded and a pale flush to his cheeks from the wine. It was an attractive sight, truth be told, and Aza wondered if Aymeric’s mother had been a beauty. He’d seen the pictures of the King that sired him, and he hadn’t been as pretty as Aymeric.

“You said,” Aymeric spoke up suddenly, startling Aza out of his shameless staring, “Wastes have stories about… Dragons.”

“Several,” Aza said a mite warily, “Most are bad stories.”

“Tell me one,” Aymeric mumbled, his words slurring together enough that it took a moment for Aza to realise what he asked.

“Okay,” Aza paused to think of one. Aymeric had propped his head up on one hand, elbow resting on the arm of his chair, his eyes closed. He looked close to sleep, “I have one. Dalamud’s Fall. Does Em know that one?”

“The moon that fell…” Aymeric mumbled, “Yes.”

“It was no moon,” Aza said, “It was prison made by Allagans thousands and thousands of years ago. They made it for powerful dragon. They put the dragon in this prison, and put it up high in the sky, using Allagan magic, and it stayed there long after Allagans all killed themselves.”

Aymeric opened his eyes at that, watching him from beneath his dark lashes. His eyes were very blue, “An Allagan prison. That is…”

“True,” Aza finished, “Allagans did many great things, but many terrible things. Lots of terrible things. I do not know why they put the dragon in the Moon Prison, but they did, and they put it in the sky. The prison fell though.”

“The Calamity,” Aymeric murmured drowsily, “About… a thousand years ago?”

“Mm. Yes. It fell, because of the Garleans. I do not know why they made it fall. They just did,” Aza waved a hand, “Anyway, Em wanted to hear about _Dragons_ , not Garleans. The Moon Prison fell, and it hit Mor Dhona, which is now called ‘The Wastes’, yes? Yes. Right into Silvertear Falls. Crash! It fell in! The prison broke open like an egg, and the dragon inside was full of fire and fury. Because dragons have long memories, and do not keep time like us, so any wrong against it, is like it was wronged yesterday.”

Aymeric’s eyes were closed now, his breathing very even.

Aza continued, making his voice slightly hushed, “The dragon flew into the sky. It roared! And then it swept over Mor Dhona, and everything burned. Mor Dhona became The Wastes. The dragon burned everything, and burned it, and burned it, until it had no fire left in it. Then it saw that all its brood was gone, it was just itself. The dragon looked and looked, but it found only bones. It was alone.”

He paused. The rain and wind filled the brief quiet, and he continued in a soft murmur; “The dragon returned to its Moon Prison. It lied down in it and let out a cry all of Hydaelyn heard. Then the dragon died, too filled with grief and anger to continue. It still lies there, in Dalamud’s empty shell. But no one goes near it. The land is cursed around it. People say you hear a song, when you get close, and it drives you mad. It is the dragon’s grief, they say. It lingers long after it is dead.”

Aza thought Aymeric had gone to sleep, but he opened his eyes at that, thin slivers of bright blue, “The dragon…” he mumbled, voice thick with drunken exhaustion, “What was its name?”

The wind went quiet and for a moment it sounded like even the rain stopped when Aza told him. Aymeric looked at him with those blue eyes, but Aza could not read the emotion in them.

“Bahamut,” Aymeric repeated after a long pause, “Yes, that sounds right.”

He then closed his eyes again and went to sleep before Aza could ask him what he meant.

* * *

Rations was unhappy.

Why unhappy? Little Chick was not _here_.

Rations clawed angrily at the thick bar holding the stable doors closed, leaving deep grooves but not achieving much. Getting out of the stall had been easier. Rations just pecked and pulled at the latch and strutted straight out. The other Chocobos squawked at her not to wander about, but she ignored her little cousins. They were such meek little things, they _needed_ to stay in the stall to be safe. Not Rations. Rations was big and powerful and strong – she had to be to look after Little Chick.

Except she couldn’t do that now, because of this door.

She hissed at the immovable obstacle, tempted to cast Comet. But the Man With Greens would be angry and probably won’t give her food, no doubt, and the little cousins would die, no doubt, and Rations guessed Little Chick wouldn’t want to deal with that, no doubt.

Rations turned away from the door in disgust.

She strutted down the length of the stables, looking up. The windows were high up and small, and whilst she could get enough lift in her stubby wings to clamber up there, she was too bulky to squeak through. Her little cousins _could_ , but she was double their size and triple their weight. She would get stuck. No, the window wasn’t it.

The stable groaned when a particularly powerful gust of wind rocked the buildings, and a few little cousins cheeped in open distress. Rations churred at them, telling them to stop being babies – it was just wind. The building wouldn’t collapse – or, maybe it would. That would solve her problem well, wouldn’t it? Oh, but then little cousins would probably die of exposure, as delicate and dainty as they were. However did they survive out here, being so small and weak?

Rations would never know. She scratched about the other end of the stables, but this had a thick bar over the door too. She pecked at it angrily and tried to think on what to do. Comet after all?

Or maybe…

Rations curiously looked at the metal spikes that held the bar in place. Could she…?

It took a bit of careful manipulation and tries – beaks were not very good at gripping thick planks of wood – but she managed to carefully, slowly, delicately, lift the thing high enough for her to _pull_ and then – the bar was gone! She dropped it to the floor, squawking in success, flapping her wings and giving the door a good kick.

They swung open! _Success_!

Rations darted out into the howling wind and rain. Her feathers were soaked in seconds, but she didn’t care. She had to find Little Chick! She was disorientated though, racing out into a big stone clearing, with big stone walls, and there were trees – growing out of stones? Tall Chicks were strange, how did they achieve that? Whatever, Rations didn’t care about trees growing out of stones. She cared about Little Chick.

She prowled about the courtyard, huffing and warking irritably. There was a big stone stable. Little Chick was in there. That nasty Tall Chick took him – what if Little Chick was in a hole somewhere, for being Little Chick? She’d disembowel that nasty Tall Chick, yes she would. She’ll peck out his eyes if she finds Little Chick upset and hurt.

“Oi, what’s this?”

Rations turned her head to see one of the Tall Chicks. He was clad head to toe in that ugly chainscale skin and had a stabby pole in one hand. Rations hissed at him warningly, lashing out with one foot and making him jump back with a yelp. Good. _Keep distance_ , she snapped at him, but like all Tall Chicks, he didn’t understand. Stupid mammals.

“It’s that Cat’s monster Chocobo,” Another Tall Chick said. This one was also in ugly chainscale skin, but with a choppy pole in one hand, “It must’ve gotten out. We better put it back in.”

“Back in? You see how it went for me? I ain’t going near that thing.”

“We just gotta make noise and scare it back in. Look. Oi! Oi! Zu-fucker! Go back!”

Choppy pole Tall Chick banged the head of her weapon against the stone floor, moving towards her and making an awful racket. Rations stepped away, annoyed. But Choppy pole Tall Chick kept coming, so Rations gave them a good peck. They quickly backed off with a yelp, though this one was higher pitched.

“ _Ow_! Fucker _pecked_ me!”

“I don’t think it’s scared of you,” Stabby pole Tall Chick laughed, “It’s bigger than you, see? Look, let’s just keep the gate closed and keep an eye on it. It’ll go back in the stables to get out of the rain. Chocobos are smart.”

Stabby pole Tall Chick went up in Rations’s estimation.

“Just give it a poke,” Choppy pole Tall Chick muttered, giving Rations a dark look. Rations just preened a wet wing, completely unconcerned, “That’ll make it dart back.”

“No, c’mon, let’s just leave it. The Cat might get mad if we start poking his mount.”

“Who gives a fuck about the Cat? He’s a fucking _Beastman_.”

“He saved the King’s life, so…”

“I call bullshit. C’mon. As if a Beastman could-”

Rations left them to argue. She strutted up to stone stable’s big doors, pecking it curiously. Locked tight and no big bar for her to lift. Typical. She left the doors alone, following the wall. She trampled over some bushes, paused to take a shit on the grass, and then found see-through glass. Oh, this was good. She could jump-

She paused.

Rations turned away from the see-through glass and cautiously prowled across the stone courtyard. The Tall Chicks were still arguing. She skirted around them, up to the big _big_ wooden double doors that led outside, probably. She listened. She could hear… _feel_ … her feathers, as wet as they were, were all ruffled and shivering. Something was coming. Something _familiar_. Hmmm…

Was it Little Chick’s sister? Oh, she hoped so. She gave the _best_ chin scratches. Rations chirped in delight at the thought.

“What’s it making noise about now?”

“Fuck if I know.”

 _Blue Chick is coming, you idiots_ , she huffed at them, but like all Tall Chicks, they were deaf and dumb. She grumbled and squatted to wait.

Not even twenty heartbeats later, she heard a throaty, hoarse scream from something very far away. The Tall Chicks got nervous. Rations cocked her head, then decided it wasn’t her problem. She started to preen her feathers for Blue Chick.

Except it was her problem – because before Rations could even fix one bent flight feather, Throaty Screamer Thing smashed right through the big big wooden doors and almost knocked her right over! How rude!

Then she saw Throaty Screamer Thing was Fiery Bird Thing but all grey and rotting and with its feathers all in a terrible disarray – ugh, did it have no shame? Rations would rather be dead then be caught looking like that – and all the Tall Chicks started yelling and screeching like they did when they got overexcited, and something roared like a farting Behemoth and everything got very loud and annoying very fast.  

Fiery Bird Thing With Ugly Feathers looked at her with empty eye sockets. It said, _Rations is that you?_

 _Yes it’s me_ , Rations said back, realising it was Blue Chick wearing another puppet again and that there was going to be no chin scratches. Shame. _Are you here to fight Little Chick_ , she asked.

 _Yes_ , said Blue Chick in Fiery Bird Thing With Ugly Feathers.

 _Okay then_ , Rations said back.

Then she kicked Blue Chick in Fiery Bird Thing With Ugly Feathers full on in the face.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I forgot to say what Bluebird's outfit looked like! It looks like [this](https://gyazo.com/7f758d941a0d4df2885e8284c505bdc9), the Dober Mail from Monster Hunter. It cool. 
> 
> But yeah, have some Rations pov. She'll turn up from time to time. 
> 
> I forgot to mention but the pairing poll is still up! It's looking like a good ol' poly relationship is on the books (but again, slow burn so not for a looooong while). 
> 
> Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry, Ratatoskr.”

There were very tiny people speaking to him.

Aymeric knew they were people, even if they were just smudges of colour with fuzzy outlines, tiny and speaking in muffled, incomprehensible words. Aymeric felt as if he was underwater, sound bubbling and shapes too indistinct in murky waters… but he knew they were people, small and fragile, and Aymeric was large and strong. He looked down at them, his legs folded underneath him, and his wings tucked close. Relaxed. He felt content. The air was sharp with a chill that spoke of incoming snow, and the murky, indistinct… dream ( _memory_ ) grew hazier as he let out slow breaths of misting air.

He knew these people. He knew them, but the names… their faces… he tried to remember, but it was too hazy. He trusted them though. They were his friends, he knew.

The main person gestured to him, his hand leaving smudges of shadow in its wake – afterimages. Everything seemed to darken, a reddish tinge that gave the indistinct, murky shapes a hint of menace. Aymeric knew something was wrong, but him in this dream ( _memory_ ) felt nothing amiss and lowered his head towards the man-

And felt a blinding agonising _pain_ when something pierced through the vulnerable space between his wings, a hot slice of steel severing his spine and into his chest and the murky, indistinct people drew steel and descended on him with red and hunger in their eyes as he collapsed with a roar of confused agony and-

Everything abruptly slid into perfect clarity.

King Thordan stood over him. A tall, broad-shouldered man with Shiva’s face and Hraesvelgr’s sombre gaze. There were tears in his eyes and but no mercy. He lifted his greatsword, the dark steel catching the weak, wintery sunlight and making its sharp edge glitter. Aymeric both understood and didn’t understand what was happening. There was pain and so much steel buried into him, and small hands pressed down on his head, his snout, as frothy pink blood gurgled in his throat, the lance piercing his back resting deep in his lung. He could not move even if he wanted, frozen with horrified realisation and betrayal.

“I’m sorry, Ratatoskr,” King Thordan said sadly, “I’m so sorry. This is the only way.”

The blade swung down.

But before it connected, King Thordan and his treasonous sword melted into crumbling ash. Fire swirled around Aymeric. There were no more hands holding him down, no lance buried into his lung, no blood in his throat – there was darkness and a red mouth and red eyes looming over him, black scales rippling from the flames dancing around them.

 ** _The blood remembers_** , the Darkness said, then screamed in maddened fury, **_IT REMEMBERS!_**

The scream followed him when he jerked awake, and it took a long, sluggish, bewildered and terrified moment for him to realise that the screaming was _real_ , but - for a moment, Aymeric wasn’t able to tell where he was, what he was – his wings, the lance, the darkness, what was- but then Aza was shaking him gently, and Aymeric realised it wasn’t _screaming_ he was hearing but the piercing wail of the alarum. But – that couldn’t be right. That only happened when…

“Em. _Em_. Stop being drunk,” Aza scolded him, giving his shoulder a rougher shake, hard enough that Aymeric felt briefly queasy when everything wobbled like the deck of a boat in a storm, “That noise. I hear fighting under it. Is that alarm?”

“Ugh, yes…” Aymeric grunted, still trying to figure himself out. That dream – melted away, red eyes, red mouth… _Behemoth again_ , he decided irritably, forcefully pushing the lingering dread and fear aside to focus on the _now_. “That’s, that’s if we’re being attacked. But who would…”

“Vargr,” Aza sighed wearily, “ _Bluebird_. She must have cheated.”

Aymeric wasn’t quite sure he understood, but he got the gist of ‘Vargr’ and that she was here, somehow, doing something. Trying to kill him most like. He was suddenly, terribly aware that he wasn’t armed, and that Aza himself was only sporting a dagger at his hip, though at least armoured. Aymeric just had a light tunic protecting him, which was… well, it definitely won’t stand up to a determined assassin’s knife, let alone whatever magical beast this ‘Bluebird’ rustled out of her breeches this time.

The alarum tapered off, but something else replaced it, muffled by walls of stone and howling wind. The long, throaty scream of Bennu.

“The bird,” Aymeric said, a bit stupidly, but thankfully Aza caught his meaning.

“I said it is child of fire bird thing. It has… odd relationship with death. It cheats it, sometimes. Bluebird knows how to do it,” Aza said vaguely. He let go of his shoulder and leaned towards the window, glancing outside of it. He seemed content with whatever he saw, and double checked the latch to make sure it was closed and locked, “I will go and kill it, before Bald-Ears get hurt flailing around. Do not move. I will be back.”

Before Aymeric could protest, Aza darted out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. The candle that sat on the table, lit before Aymeric began his ill-advised drinking, flickered, casting shadows in the room. He wavered, unsure if he should follow or not. He was too drunk to assist, but neither did he relish sitting here whilst Bennu reborn, apparently, attacked his _home_. What if… Lord Borel went out to assist the guards? What if he was hurt? The guards themselves, _Estinien_ – Gods. It could be a repeat of Willowed Woods. He felt sick at the thought.

Reckless from drink and worry both, Aymeric managed to push himself to his feet. A powerful gust of wind rattled the window, a low hanging branch scratching at the glass, and he started his unsteady journey to the door. He was exhausted and aching still, but the buzz of alcohol made it easy to ignore. He reached the door, grabbing the handle-

_‘scritch’._

A squeak of an unoiled hinge.

Aymeric went still, instinctively holding his breath as he sobered almost instantly. He barely heard it, underneath the distant howls and shouting and howling wind and rain, but he heard it. Something clicked, and the quiet scrape of wood sliding, a cold draft blowing against his back. He could smell wet earth carried on it.

_‘thmpth’_

Light feet landed on hardwood flooring, one of the floorboards squeaking in protest. The intruder didn’t bother hiding their presence. The window was still open, the cold wet wind gusting in. The candle finally guttered out, not before Aymeric saw the extra shadow stretched on the wall next to him, horned and tall.

He turned.

Dripping water on the floor and as small as Aza, the assassin stood. A pitch-black bull-skull, surrounded by a mane of thick, dark hair, glowered at him with empty eye sockets. Furred, dark leather armour was covered by a dark brown oiled cloak that did nothing to keep the rain off. A thick, black scaled tail lazily swished from side to side, and the stranger let their hand drift to the long dagger at their belt.

The Vargr.

For a long moment neither of them moved. The Vargr stood there, a growing puddle of water at their feet, their tail swishing side to side, and Aymeric was pressed up against the door jamb feeling strangely calm. His heart was racing though, even as his gaze slid over to where a sword – a ceremonial thing of flimsy silver gilded steel – rested over the hearth. It would be a poor weapon, and there was an armchair and half a room between them, but Aymeric knew it was grab that or take a knife to the ribs.

He shifted a few steps towards it.

The Vargr made a low noise that was an almost laugh, too muffled beneath the bull-skull helmet to know if it was a woman or man, and matched his movement with a long, confident stride. There was a hiss of their dagger easing out of their sheath, a glimmer of crimson in those empty eye sockets of their bull-skull helmet.

“Don’t,” the Vargr said in an accent similar to Aza’s – _woman_ , Aymeric noted instantly, “If you stay still, you will die quick and painless. Struggle, I will stab you in the bowels and let you die slow. No healer can save you, once the shit’s in your blood.”

Aymeric went still. He was in front of the coffee table between the two sofas. He instantly knew what to do.

“Good,” Vargr purred, taking another stride closer. Another step, “Good boy. Stay-”

He kicked the table and sent it spinning right into the Vargr’s grinning bull-skull face.

* * *

Aza had no idea where the front door was relative to the room he just left, so he ended up climbing out of a window and into the courtyard instead.

The rain was like a cold smack to the face and he was soaked in seconds, squinting through the spray to see a group of knights yelling and fighting some writhing… _thing_. Rations was there too, leading the charge, her feathers a bright gold amongst the drab grey, beating the ever-living shit out of the half-rotted Bennu with powerful kicks.

The Bennu had already lost its lower jaw to one such kick, its long, worm like tongue dangling loosely as it blindly swung its head around. Empty eye sockets, patches of bald, grey skin where clumps of feathers had just sloughed off – it only had one wing, uselessly clawing and buffeting at whatever came near it, its black talons clumsily stomping and slashing at thin air. There was no way that _shambling corpse_ came here by itself. Bluebird must’ve led it here and let it loose, but… _why?_ The Bennu was in such a _terrible_ state the knights didn’t even need his or Rations’s help to slay it. It had barely been ten minutes and the poor half-dead creature was just flailing around in blind pain, screaming and screeching and slowly succumbing to Rations’s relentless kicks and the knights’ steel.

 Horseface appeared then – from on high, probably leapt out of the window a floor up – fully armoured and with lance in hand. The battle was all but won then.

It was such a pathetic failure of an attack that it left Aza… bewildered and disappointed. He jumped out of a _window_ and got soaked to the bone for _this?_ What was Bluebird trying to do, rattle them? It did seem like something she’d do, just a little reminder that she was still out there, stir the pot so to speak – but it just made everyone agitated and alert. It’d be harder for her to launch her next attack with a stronger beast tomorrow or the night after, making everyone more vigilant for attacks. If anything, all Bennu had served to be was a pathetic distraction-

Aza sucked in a breath.

 _Distraction_.

Aza was here, the knights were here – all of them, those that guarded the gates, the door, the walls – they were _all here_. Estinien was here too, now burying his lance into the Bennu’s skull, putting it out of its wailing misery – Lord Borel too, on the steps of the double doors leading into the estate, half-dressed with a longsword in hand, looking grim. They were all here. _They were all here_.

Except Aymeric.

Who was alone.

Drunk.

Unarmoured.

 _Unarmed_.

Aza swore at the top of his lungs and scrambled back through the window like he had Mom on his tail. He did so with such franticness he all but tumbled into the estate head first and landed hard on his hands and knees. He clambered up, bolting down the hallway, hearing now – clash of metal, thudding and shouting- _Bluebird’s voice_ -!

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” Aza chanted, skidding wildly as he drew to a sharp stop in front of the door, almost falling down again but managed to catch himself on the door handle, fumbling with it and shouldering the door open – instantly smacking it full on into _someone_ – Bluebird yelped, Aymeric shouted in surprise, Aza barely looked, barely took a moment to process him seeing Bluebird tottering back half a step, her dagger in hand, Aymeric unsteadily standing with his back to the wall, nicked silver blade in hand, bleeding from a cut to the cheek, a spot of red on his thigh, quickly widening – stab wound, _still alive_ , Aza thought in relief, _both of them_ , and then pounced right onto Bluebird before his sister could regain her balance.

“ _Fucker_!” Bluebird screeched as he dragged them both down to the floor in a tangle of limbs. His sister was like an eel, slippery and twisting, and it took everything Aza had to try and keep that dagger _away_ from his vital spots. It darted out like a lunging viper, at his belly, at his throat, his joints – each time Aza barely managed to turn it aside, to shove back to wriggle and squirm away from a fatal stab – rolling over each other across the floor, grappling and wrestling, hissing and snarling at each other like animals until-

Thunder of footsteps, yelling – Bluebird abruptly headbutted him. Aza recoiled, stars exploding in his vision from the sheer force of solid _bone_ smashing into his nose. In the brief few seconds when Aza laid there, thoroughly stunned, Bluebird slipped free and – too much noise, movement. Aza rolled onto his hands and knees, cupping his smarting nose, feeling blood dribble over his upper lip and down his chin, blood heavy on his tongue and thought, _shit, she broke my fucking nose._

Bloody typical. She _always_ had to get in the last blow.

With teary eyes, he looked up – but Bluebird was long gone. His sister slipped free and the room were filled with knights. As skilled as Bluebird was, even she would struggle to fight off angry, overzealous knights defending their lord and liege in such tight quarters. Her timely retreat was the wisest thing to do, even if it meant letting her prey slip free.

 _How lucky_ , he thought woozily, unsure if he meant themselves or his sister.

* * *

Estinien was _furious_.

At everyone, himself included. He was stalking the perimeter of the near murder-scene like how a caged beast would prowl, taking in the damage and blood splatters with a jaw so clenched he could feel a headache throb between his temples. Aymeric had been _stupidly_ drinking alone, by himself, and the _Beastman_ had also _stupidly_ left him alone when the dead _thing_ came flailing through the gates. The only thing stopping Estinien from skewering that damned stray was the fact that he did, eventually, save Aymeric upon realising his error, but that was down to fucking _luck_. If Aymeric had been too slow, clumsier, more drunk, less skilled… Gods, they would be preparing for a funeral instead of a journey right now.   

Aymeric was seated on an armchair while a medic tended to a leg – a glancing blow, thankfully, where the assassin attempted to hamstring him – with Lord Borel giving him a tongue lashing. A quiet one, in slow, measured, even tones that made you feel like a silly, stupid child. Aymeric was cradling his head, his eyes downcast, from the tongue lashing or the incoming hangover it was difficult to tell.

A pair of knights were stationed at the window, as if expecting the Vargr to come leaping back through any moment. Another pair were combing the room, as if the fucking assassin would have dropped her memoirs during the scuffle that would tell them all they needed to know about her. The Beastman was lingering by the door, sporting two black eyes and a recently healed broken nose, blood smeared over his upper lip and chin. He was lucky he didn’t have a tooth knocked out – Estinien saw the Vargr practically smash his face in with that bull-skull helmet of hers.

As if sensing his glower, the Beastman glanced at him. He had the audacity to look puzzled at his glaring, tilting his head questioningly.

Estinien stomped towards him, needing to vent.

“You left him alone,” he hissed under his breath. The pair of knights combing the room glanced over, and then hurriedly away, openly eavesdropping, “He could have been _killed_.”

“You did too. Left him alone,” the Beastman returned in a thick voice, giving him a dull look, “We all did.”

Estinien ground his teeth together so hard he could almost hear it. The Beastman’s ear twitched, a spasm of irritating crossing his darkly tanned face.

“It is fine. We know now. Better,” The Beastman continued tiredly, “Bluebird sneak than thought. My fault. I should… hm… expected it.”

The Beastman was struggling to speak coherent Eorzean Common. His words were slurring a little together, accent too strong to be easily understood, and his eyes were a bit out of focused – concussed? Estinien scowled and turned away, not feeling comfortable kicking a man while he was down.

Dissatisfied, he walked away.

They got complacent. They thought the Vargr would be hesitant to assault Aymeric whilst he was in here because of the walls and guards, but… what were those to someone who could command beasts? This Vargr could just throw monster after monster at their gates until something gave, and then stab Aymeric in the back whilst otherwise distracted. He wasn’t safe here. The longer they stayed, the wearier the guards came, the luckier the Vargr would get. They only had so many knights, and with each assault a man would be wounded, everyone else getting wearier and sloppier, while the Vargr can apparently _raise the fucking dead_ and send fresh bodies, or rotting ones, at them until they all died.

They needed to leave soon, Estinien thought, glancing at Lord Borel and Aymeric both. They needed to leave sooner than soon. They needed to leave within the next few hours, whilst the Vargr regrouped. If they left _now_ , within an hour, even better. She may not find out until the next night, and then they would have a bit of a head start…

It was the only thing they could do – even with Aymeric wounded and exhausted, Aza concussed, it was better than staying here to do. No. Leaving within the hour was the best plan.

Mind made up, Estinien squared his shoulders and made for Lord Borel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate action scenes
> 
> this is a kind of, move along plot chapter. i just wanna get to the cool disaster in the making journey. also im v tired. work is sucking out my soul lololol
> 
> Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed! Also to those who commented so far, thank you! I appreciate it <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My leg’s good,” Aymeric said, his eyes sliding almost shut like a very contented cat, until thin slivers of blue were visible, “The healer used more potent healing spells... and something for the pain as well.”
> 
> So, drunk, aether-drunk, and drugged. This was going to go swimmingly.

The storm had quietened by the time they were preparing to leave.

The rain was nothing more than a fine, misty drizzle now, and the wind occasionally picked up as a cold bluster, but otherwise all was quiet as Aza huddled close to Rations’s side, sheltering from the freezing cold drizzle beneath her extended, stubby wing. The courtyard was a ruin from Bennu’s blind rampage – shambling corpse or not, it had torn up massive gouges in the smooth stone and left bits and pieces of itself everywhere. The bird itself was in the process of being methodically dismembered by order of Lord Borel, allegedly so the Vargr couldn’t work her ‘dark sorcery’ to reanimate it anew.

Aza tried to tell him that it was done, the last embers of the bird’s life was gone, but the Bald-Ear wouldn’t hear of it. So now Aza watched as the soldiers hacked and chopped Bennu apart, with orders to burn the individual pieces as far away from each other and scatter the ashes in a deep hole somewhere. A bit extreme, but Aza knew it would amuse Bluebird that they would go to such lengths just to dispose of _Bennu._

His nose throbbed at the thought of his sister, and he gingerly touched it. A medic had been kind enough to dab a weak Cure spell on it once forced straight, but Aza’s… _ability_ took care of the rest. It still ached though, even if there was nothing wrong with it. The body remembered the injury, will continue remembering it for a while. At least his black eyes had gone away.

He was lucky to only get away with a broken nose, to be honest. Bluebird must’ve been so pleased with herself when she came across an unguarded Aymeric, had probably been gloating in her head about how clever she was to gain this opportunistic kill – then in comes her annoying little brother, getting underfoot and ruining everything. It warmed the cold, dark cockles of his heart to think of her fuming in the wilderness, sodden and humiliated. Bluebird needed some routine humbling, in Aza’s opinion – and it taught her to poison her daggers the next time she tried to assassinate someone.

Although…

Aza couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for Aymeric. His sister was no weakling, could hold her own even against him for a time – even if she overly relied on her beasts to fight for her – so the fact that Aymeric held her at bay with an _ornamental_ sword whilst drunk and injured was… fucking mind-boggling. Was it just dumb luck? Was Aymeric some martial genius when pickled in wine? What? It mystified him, but he was also disappointed he missed the main fight. Aymeric must’ve been an amazing sight to witness, and Bluebird must’ve been _so embarrassed_ …

Rations suddenly nipped his ear, startling him out of his vindictive daydreaming, “ _Ow_. What?”

“Chrrr…” His Chocobo jabbed her beak to the side, and Aza followed her gesturing. Ah, speak of the Voidsent.

Aymeric was making his slow, stiff way towards them. He looked a lot better than few hours before, where he’d been stinking of wine and heavily dishevelled. The dark tunics were replaced with armour – a light, steel plate over chainmail, the metal polished to a silver so pale it looked almost white. It was contrasted with glimpses of black leather at the joints of his elbows, the crease of his groin, presumably the back of his knees too, and the dark, scaled fingerless gloves – curious choice. Aza’s eye, though, was drawn to the heraldry stamped into the breastplate above his left heart – a silver tree with deep, winding roots against a field of deep blue and black. Apt, for a line of lordling farmers, he supposed.

At Aymeric’s hip a longsword sat, long enough that the blunt tip of the thick scabbard swayed only a few ilms off the floor. The sword itself looked broad too – like a zweihander shrunken down enough to squeak by as a bastard sword at the very least. It looked surprisingly plain – most noble Bald-Ears tended to have shiny, jewel encrusted swords that just made them targets for outlaws and did nothing to improve their stale fighting styles. This sword had a plain, dark gold hilt – almost brassy, softened with leather wrappings on the grip. One lone stone sat centre of the hilt, a dark red oval that wasn’t quite a ruby, and didn’t shine. It could have been coloured glass, for all Aza knew.

But it was the _Chocobo_ at Aymeric’s side, that drew his focus the most. Aymeric may have cut a handsome figure in his armour, but the bird walking beside him was a work of art. He, hopefully a gelding, was sleek and streamlined, even for an Eorzean Chocobo, with strong, long legs and deep, dark blue feathers that darkened to navy at the very tips. This was common with the Eorzean breed: unlike their Wasteland cousins, they came in all kinds of colours, ranging from the common yellow to purple, reds, blues, _pinks_ , and even mixed between several. According to rumours, the colour of the Eorzean Chocobo informed one of its _abilities_ – for while they were weak, small and skittish, they had something Wasteland Chocobo’s didn’t: flight, mountain-walking and water-walking.

This one must be a water-walker, Aza decided, eyeing the sleek Chocobo with open interest. He looked quite pleased to be in the drizzling rain, fluffing up his feathers and letting out happy chirps, lifting his strong legs up in the prancing gait of a cheerful, content bird. His feathers were glossy, his dark, doe-eyes were bright and clear, and his tail feathers looked strong and stiff. This was a well-cared for and happy Chocobo. Good.

“Hello, Em,” he greeted when his only favourite Elezen stopped before him. Aymeric looked like he just finished running the length of the Wastes, not the several fulms of his courtyard, “You look like you have a plague.”

“A plague called ‘Hangover’,” Aymeric replied in a rough, scratchy voice. He leaned on his Chocobo, the bird bearing his weight quite happily, and let out a short, abrupt exhale. His hair was damp and frizzy looking in the drizzle, a few thick tresses half-curling from the moisture. It looked cute, but Aymeric’s pale, sickly pallor ruined the look a little. Not even the chilly rain brought a flush to his cheeks, “Riding at first light… I’m not even sure I can mount Dusk without needing to vomit.”

 _I think he’s still drunk…_ Aza found amusement in that, eyeing how Aymeric _was_ swaying a little bit, no amount of posing against ‘Dusk’ could hide that. He was speaking too slowly and carefully too – but Aza could detect the mild slur, and his glibness gave him away. Aza could already envision this very important journey starting off on a bad, drunken foot by Aymeric tumbling right off the saddle the moment they set off.

“Can Em even ride drunk?” Aza asked him mildly, “Maybe Bluebird won’t need to try again. Maybe Em will do her job for her by breaking his neck when falling off.”

Aymeric’s mouth curved into a wryly amused smile, “People might ban kings from riding in that case, judging how fatal it’s been for them.”

“Ah?”

“It’s how most of the Kings and Queens of Ishgard have died,” Aymeric explained, “Most of them – no, a lot of them, not most, they die from falling off their mounts, more often than not.”

“Maybe they should teach them how to ride better,” Aza suggested, though he did find that quite strange. Out of everything, _falling_ was the cause of death for Kings and Queens? Aza would’ve thought poisonings, or assassins stabbing them in the night, or gout would be the top killer of monarchs, not ill-tempered mounts, “How good is Em at riding?”

“Passable,” Aymeric admitted, looking a bit sheepish at his mediocre riding skills, “I can stay seated.”

Aza hummed doubtfully but let the subject drop. Dusk and Rations were crooning at each other, getting to know one another – quite happily, it seemed – and felt a small pang. Rations never got to talk or socialise much with other Chocobos, so she was probably pleased for more feathered company on their travels. Hopefully not _too_ happy, though. Gods, he really hoped Dusk was gelded, although Aza would pay to see that sleek, tiny thing try to mount Rations. 

“How is leg?” he asked abruptly, pointing to said leg. It was covered in plate mail, but last he saw it had been a significant cut that had bled a lot. Nothing too serious, but Aza knew he was shit at gauging what counted as a ‘bad’ wound, and what wasn’t. Aymeric’s walk had been stiff and unsteady, but that may’ve been more the wine than an injury.

“My leg’s good,” Aymeric said, his eyes sliding almost shut like a very contented cat, until thin slivers of blue were visible, “The healer used more potent healing spells... something for the pain as well.”

So, drunk, aether-drunk, _and_ drugged. This was going to go swimmingly.

“Maybe we should tie Em to Dusk with rope,” Aza drawled mockingly, “Best not tempt riding curse when all sossed.”

Aymeric stared blankly at him, “…sossed?”

“Yes,” Aza frowned, “Sossed? Sozzed? I do not know word…”

“Soused,” Horseface’s voice said behind him.

Aza almost jumped right out of his skin, he startled that badly, Rations letting out an annoyed hissing noise. Horseface was behind them, standing in that spiky armour that those annoying Dragoons wore. He also had the tree heraldry on his breast, a spot of pale silver against his dark armour. Beside him was another Eorzean Chocobo, pitch-black and bulkier than Dusk. Destrier, Aza realised, Eorzea’s attempt to breed something as sturdy and broad as a Wasteland Chocobo. Like everything Eorzean, though, the breed was inferior and a knock off copy, but this bird looked mean enough to put up a good kicking if riled enough. He, most definitely _not_ gelded, had thick, powerful legs and a deep, broad chest, with a beak that was long and sharp, almost serrated like a Zu’s. He also had narrow, dark blue eyes that somehow had the exact same glare as Horseface, and Aza had to stifle the urge to laugh about it.

“It pains me to admit it,” Horseface began, his helmet doing nothing to hide the amused twist to his pale lips, “But I have to agree with the stray. We may have to tie you to your damn mount, Aymeric.”

“I’m sober enough to ride,” Aymeric grumbled, “I walked here under my own power, didn’t I?”

“Miraculously,” Horseface smirked, “Say, did you say your prayers at the chapel? Perhaps begging a scrap of luck from Halone won’t go amiss before we go charging into a wilderness with a murderous sorceress on the loose.”

“ _Vargr_ ,” Aza stressed, “Not sorceress. Bluebird is not a witch.”

“You’re awfully defensive over the assassin,” Horseface said mildly. His helmet hid it, but Aza could practically _feel_ the suspicious stare he was sending his way, “How did you say you knew her again?”

Aza clenched his jaw, kicking himself for _continuously_ walking into that trap. Horseface had been doing that often in the past few hours, making some passing comment about Bluebird that Aza would instinctively correct, and betray more and more that his knowledge of Bluebird was more than just ‘I’ve heard of her’. He didn’t know why the man was so suspicious. He fucking wrestled Bluebird to the ground and got a broken nose out of it stopping her from stabbing Aymeric. He was almost torn in _half_ from defending Aymeric from Bennu! What more did he have to do to prove his reliability? Fight off a horde of fucking dragons or something?

“I have heard of her,” Aza said tightly. Rations picked up on his unease and snapped her beak at Horseface, her feathers fluffing up. Horseface’s destrier returned in kind, the two mounts hissing lowly at each other while Dusk looked increasingly nervous and skittish.

Aymeric looked annoyed.

“Stop it,” he said, pushing himself up from his slouch against Dusk, “Estinien, it doesn’t matter how Aza knows her-”

“I think it does,” Horseface cut in, “We should get to the bottom of this now, before we leave.”

Aza was abruptly aware of his position. He had Rations with him, but the courtyard were full of Bald-Ear knights and guards, all within fighting distance, and Horseface was right in front of him, his destrier spoiling from a fight from the look of his threat display. Aza’s hand slowly rested on his helmet hanging from his belt, trying to keep his face straight even though he felt horrifically exposed. He could kill them all if he needed to, but he didn’t want to. He really didn’t want to. He didn’t _want_ to fight _people_. Why couldn’t they just trust him at his word like they did with each other?

“We will be travelling with each other across the bloody countryside,” Horseface said, having the grace to keep his voice low. Over the noise of the knights still hacking away at Bennu’s rotting body, their conversation was as private as it could be out in an open courtyard, “So I’d like to know if our stray is going to slit our throats in our sleep or not when he’s on watch.”

His words were like a slap to the face. Aza jerked back, wounded, and promptly unbuckled his helmet and crammed it on. Horseface tensed, probably expecting that as a combat indicator, but Aza just needed the comforting veil it gave him. He was _trying his best._ What did he  _do,_ to keep having people look at him with such suspicion and wariness? He wanted adventure and new friends and new experiences, not  _this_ -

“Estinien,” Aymeric snapped, genuinely sounding angry, “If he was going to kill me already, he would have done it when he found me _dying_ on the roadside about to get _eaten_. Instead he has protected me and defended me and _bled_ for me when others would have long since fled. Enough.”

Horseface’s mouth downturned into a scowl, “He could be-”

“ _Enough._ ”

Horseface’s mouth snapped shut.

The air suddenly felt muggy and warm, and Aymeric didn’t seem so lazily tipsy anymore, his eyes dark and stormy. It was like standing in front of Mom when she got into one of her moods, some primitive part of Aza’s brain saying _predator, stay still, don’t draw attention_ , so that’s what he did. Even Rations was still, and so was Horseface’s destrier, and Dusk was fluffed up and trembling on the spot.

Then Aymeric exhaled, and that heavy, muggy _pressure_ vanished as if it wasn’t there, “… I’m sorry,” he murmured, sounding more human, “I didn’t mean to snap, but… I don’t want to endure a ride with you two squabbling and distrusting each other the whole way to the capital. We can’t afford to fight amongst ourselves, so Estinien, _trust me_ to trust Aza. Do you understand?”

Horseface looked like he was choking on his bloated pride as he muttered, “I understand.”

Aymeric glanced at Aza, “Don’t antagonise each other either. We’re all companions and brother in arms now. We need to act like it.”

It felt a bit weird to be scolded by a Bald-Ear like he was some misbehaving boy learning his swordplay, but there was still that lingering feeling of _predator_ about Aymeric, so Aza mutely nodded from behind the safety of his Behemoth helm. It seemed to him that the Dragon blood wasn’t so diluted after all…

“Good,” Aymeric exhaled again, and ran both hands through his hair. It was a damp, wild mess at this point, “Right. We should… go.”

“We should,” Horseface said stiffly, “Have you said your goodbyes to Lord Borel?”

“Goodbyes, yes… let’s call them ‘goodbyes’,” Aymeric looked thoroughly drained and tired, “The letter has been sent by Postmoogle to the Holy See. They should anticipate our lateness, and are aware of our… situation. I was thinking we should avoid the Willowed Woods. Father said Lord Rouvoux has blocked the route through it, whilst his knights do a sweep of the merchant’s road to ensure our ‘Bluebird’ didn’t leave any… pets… behind.”

“That leaves fording the river,” Horseface said, “Dangerous after such rains. The banks will be flooded and the current too fast to ford.”

Aza piped up here, “There is boat we can take. The Qiqirn ferry.”

“The _rat boat_?” Horseface said incredulously, “You want us to ride the rat boat?”

Aza glared at him from behind his helm, indignant, “ _Rat boat_? They are not _rats_. They are _Qiqirn,_ and they are good traders and have _good_ boat! It big enough for us… but might sink under _your fat head_.”

“They’re conmen and thieves,” Horseface insisted angrily, “Many a green recruit has been fleeced by their poor wares, inferior weapons and _dangerous_ substances. We are _not_ getting on a damned boat with them.”

“Not my fault Bald-Ears are shit traders,” Aza sniffed, “Qiqirn sell trash to trash, so maybe that why.”

“ _Trash-!?_ ”

“Gods,” Aza heard Aymeric mutter under his breath, “I should have let the assassin kill me.”

* * *

Bluebird was _fuming_.

She was spitting curses as she waded through knee deep mud, filthy and soaked and exhausted from the mad dash she just did. Some of those fucking knights were tenacious little fuckers, chasing her a good malm or two before she lost them in an old wooded area. She supposed she was lucky none of them had the time to get on Chocobo-back to chase after her – she would’ve been run down within minutes.

She struggled onto dry land, grimacing at the thick layer of mud caking to her legs. This forest was growing out an old swamp, the ground bumpy with perilous pools of sucking mud covered in a thin layer of green scum. The air was thick with life and dirt, and Bluebird shoved her bull-skull helm up, letting it rest atop of her head as she took a lungful.

All was quiet around her. No yelling, no rattling armour… she was safe for now.

Bluebird moved to where a thick oak was sprouting at the top of this little ‘island’, curling up amongst the thick, gnarled roots and letting its broad leaves shelter her from the worst of the rain. It was going to be a long, cold night, and she briefly allowed herself to mourn Bennu’s passing. The bird would have warmed her nicely, but no, Aza _maimed_ it, and Rations ruined it further. Bluebird fucking _regretted_ the day she gifted her little brother that monster of a Chocobo. Been the bane of her existence from Day One.

She let out a sigh, stretching her legs out and staring out amongst the old, mossy trees, leaning over the swampy pools of mud. Aza being here troubled her – not the fact he was getting underfoot, he always did that whenever they crossed paths, but just… Ishgard was dangerous for foreigners right now. She had heard odd things from her little birds, none of them good, and even the Bald-Ears who sat in the Vigils along the Allagan Wall had been on edge recently. Something was happening in the Holy See, in the capital. The gates were barred shut, birds and Postmoogles flew in, but rarely flew _out_ , and no one left. No one. No merchants, no patrols, no travellers. No one.

Bluebird dug into the inside pocket of her furred breastplate, taking out the yellowed, crumpled paper. She smoothed it open, reading the neat lines of Eorzean Common. No matter how many times she read it, it never yielded any answers to her. It was just three lines, detailing her job, the pay, and what would count as a failure. No name was attached, no identifying mark, but…

This was given to her by a knight she recognised from Camp Dragonhead, the frontier that sat within the Wastes, just beyond the Stone Vigil. She recognised him because he was a frequent visitor to Reunion – a dapper, flirty man who didn’t seem to care if you had a tail or not when he charmed his way into your bedroll, but he had been nervous when handing the letter to her. Pale and anxious and stinking of fear. Not of her. Of something else.

She stared at the letter for a moment longer, before folding it up and tucking it back into her breastplate. She supposed it didn’t matter. She needed to kill Aymeric before he reached the Holy See. Whoever told her to do it… it didn’t matter. The warning they carried was probably false, probably just a line to get her involved in these complicated Bald-Ear games for the thrones, but the Wastes remembered the tale of Ishgard’s Dragons.

The Wastes remembered Dalamud’s Fall, and Bahamut cracking out of his fiery, evil egg. How could they ever forget? They lived on a desolate plain because of that _thing_.

She clenched her hand into a tight fist, before pushing herself onto her feet. Fuck sleep. Fuck waiting for The Beast. She got cocky when she saw Aymeric alone and drunk – not this time. No. She could kill as silent as a wraith when she wanted to, and not even Aza could detect her until it was too late. Her brother would be upset with her for a while, she knew, but this was for him. He’d understand when she told him.

They wouldn’t go through Willowed Woods, she knew she made a fuck up of that perfect ambush. No. They’d try an alternative route, and she knew which one. Aza had a fondness for the Beast Tribes, and he was good friends with Jijiroon of the Borel River Trading Post, so no doubt he’d convince them to get passage with them. Aza horded rare things like a magpie too, so no doubt he’d rustle some bizarre and fantastical thing to dazzle Jijiroon enough to allow two Bald-Ears onto his boat.

Perhaps she was lucky Aza was with them after all. She knew her little brother like the back of her hand. She knew how he’d act, the people he knew, the routes he’d take, his flaws and weaknesses… yeah, Jjiroon’s place was where she’d finish this Mummer’s Farce. She’ll kill Aymeric and put an end to this. Then she’d thrash Aza within an inch of his life for killing her King Behemoth and Bennu, the little brat.

Smiling grimly, she loped through the swampy, dark woods, disappearing into the night with only fading footprints to mark her passage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am aware estinien is coming across very arsey but i swEAR HE'S GOING TO GET BETTER. just remember how he was when you were travelling with him with y'sayle and he was being a little shit and trying to pick fights with dragons when everyone was like "estinien don't fight the dragons" "k" /Vidofnir shows up "YOU WANNA GO" "ESTINIEN NO"
> 
> in other news, the road trip begins. with assassins. and monsters. and unresolved sexual tension. oh my!
> 
> please comment/kudos if you enjoyed!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Coeurl?” Jijiroon squeaked, “And Tall Friends? Strange mix that, very strange.”

Jijiroon’s Trading Post was a _dump_ in Estinien’s opinion.

It was a modestly sized rickety shack that sat on stout, creaking stilts just off a rocky bank of the Borel River, with a crude dock clumsily bolted onto the side of it. Despite its creaking, fragile look though, it was tenaciously withstanding the rapid current of the swelled river with only a few ominous groans. The sun was rising through the misty gloom of the late morning, peeking over the curved arch of the shack’s roof, which, on closer inspection, was actually a fishing boat repurposed _into_ a roof. Estinien could see a few holes in the prow of it. All in all, it was a ramshackle disaster of a building, most likely due to Jijiroon’s habit of migrating the entire thing along Borel River every year.

The reason was this: every year, a group of knights would be tasked with ‘politely’ asking Jijiroon to remove his illegal construction from Borel property and relocate elsewhere. Jijiroon, a bug-eyed rat that twitched and shivered unpleasantly, would wring his oversized, clumsy fingers and lisp in that squeaking voice; _‘of course, of course, Jijiroon will move. Jijiroon will move for shinies, will move from here’_ , and the knights would give the queer creature a handful of gil just to make him cooperative and watch him and his brood deconstruct the shack, hop on their tiny merchant vessel and sail downriver.

Only to see him a week or two later elsewhere along Borel River, set up and resuming his trade like nothing was wrong. Every time he was confronted, he would lisp, _‘but you said it was_ there _I could not trade, not_ here _, I can trade here, I see no signs’_ , and short of killing the pathetic creature and his clan, there was no way to deter him from clogging up the river, plying his illegal trade. Eventually Lord Borel decided to just tolerate and make use of him, but not without being petty about it. Every year they told Jijiroon to move along, just to show their displeasure at his presence, and every year Jijiroon would demand a bribe and then go along his merry way and set up shop further down the river. It was a mummer’s farce, frankly, and everyone knew it was and so just went through the motions.   

But, it wasn’t as if he was a _complete_ nuisance. Admittedly, Jijiroon did bring up rare and useful things that one couldn’t… _legally_ acquire in Ishgard. Rumour was the rat sailed down the river all the way to Revenant’s Toll, a frontier town that had transformed into a bustling trading hub in the past century or so, and could be convinced to find specific, rare and difficult to obtain items if one’s purse was heavy enough. Lord Borel used his services from time to time, normally for rare fertiliser or plants or seeds, and Jijiroon _did_ always come through for them… after overpricing them to a criminal degree.

And the common guards, knights and smallfolk found use in his trade as well. Most of the time he fleeced them, overpricing them for common items or selling them useless ‘magical’ trinkets… but occasionally, Jijiroon would procure a rare medicine for devastating diseases or plagues, old tomes that explained almost forgotten histories, valuable ores and hides that could only be obtained in distant lands, specialised tools for craftsmen trades… it was just learning how to shift through all the shit and see through Jijiroon’s fast-talking lies.

Gravel crunched underfoot as they picked their careful way to Jijiroon’s Trading Post. After the heavy rains, the path that would have led a safe, comfortable route to the rocky bank the shack sat on had become pebbly rock pools. Puddles as deep as one’s shins lay on the route, and the gravel sunk deep into the soft rivermud underneath, making it treacherously slippery. It sloped gently downwards, so they were careful not to stumble, lest they slid all the way down to the bank and get swept up into the fast-running river.

Borel River had burst said banks, and its surface was dark grey and choppy, white foam occasionally breaking over dark rocks jutting out from the surface. The Borel River was always dangerous even when calm, but so soon after a heavy storm, with a still blustering wind, it was downright lethal. Estinien eyed the small merchant vessel tied to the crude dock, watching it bob frantically up and down, straining against the thick rope holding it in place. He wasn’t sure which would break first – the rope or the dock.

Eventually they cleared the slippery gravel path and stepped onto damp, mottled green wooden planks that acted as rudimentary steps up to the Trading Post. Jijiroon was optimistic for trade that miserable morning and had laid out his wares on the tiny ‘deck’ of the shack. Crates overflowing with pitch black rocks sat next to the door, probably coal or charcoal from the looks of it, and another crate full of… some weird plant. It smelled incredibly sour, and he was pleased to see Aza none too subtly cover his nose as he stopped at the closed door and banged on it.

“Jijiroon!” The Beastman yelled, “Open up! It’s Coeurl!”

 _Another name?_ Estinien thought curiously, eyeing him. Aza had weathered the long, hard ride well, despite the lack of sleep or food, enviously bright eyed and bushy tailed while Estinien felt saddle sore and exhausted to the bone. They set off before the sun had even risen, and it took almost all morning to reach this stretch of the river – a curved band that was thankfully relatively close to the estate. Aymeric had been miserable, was still miserable now looking at his tired, sickly expression, but his friend hadn’t uttered a word of complaint. In fact, Aymeric had been uncharacteristically quiet, but he _did_ look like he would be ill if he opened his mouth, so perhaps that was for the best.

He was drawn out of his quiet contemplation of his friend when the door rattled and then pulled open, revealing Jijiroon.

Like all Rat Men he was tiny. Barely three fulms high, he had a long snout with bristly whiskers at the end, big brown eyes that bugged out, giving him an expression of being constantly surprised, large, bare feet with long, clawed toes and oversized hands with bulbous fingers. He wore a hooded, dark brown tunic made of roughly spun wool, peasant garb, really, and black breeches that covered his squat, waddling legs. Long, rat-like ears jutted out from holes in his hood, ears that were twitching as Jijiroon snuffled the air, wringing his hands together as he squinted up at the Beastman looming over him.

“Coeurl?” Jijiroon squeaked, “And Tall Friends? Strange mix that, very strange.”

“Yes, they are… work,” Aza said a mite awkwardly. It amused Estinien to see that Jijiroon was a lot more eloquent in Eorzean Common – while he had that annoying, lispy, squeaky voice, his accent was soft enough and his Common fluent enough that you’d think him a native speaker, unlike Aza’s thickly accented, clunky attempt, “I have job with them, and job needs us to cross the river.”

“I see, I see,” Jijiroon’s bright pink nose wriggled as he snuffled audibly, “So, is Coeurl seeking passage, yes? I can do that, yes. I go to Revenant’s Toll tomorrow, for small shinies, I can take you, yes, and birds?”

“We don’t need to go to Revenant’s Toll,” Estinien cut in, “We just need to cross the river.”

“Can’t do that, can’t, only for big shinies,” Jijiroon said, twitching and shivering in place, like he was having an odd fit, “River, you see river, yes? It is fast, and rocks and trees are in it, making it _dangerous_. No, no, only go to Revenant’s Toll, stick to this side of river. Can’t cross safely. But Revenant’s Toll has bridge. A good bridge. And I will be selling rare things there too, very good things for Tall friends.”

“Revenant’s Toll is good,” Aza said, “It is longer, but far on foot. We will lose Bluebird.”

“It will add almost a _month_ to our journey,” Estinien said irritably, “and that is if we ride our birds hard. We will be stuck on the rat boat for a good week, sailing down this river.”

“We will go to Revenant’s Toll,” Aymeric said. Those were the first words he’d uttered since they left the estate, and his voice was scratchy and hoarse, “It will make the journey longer, but… Aza’s right. Unless our assassin grows wings, she will be weeks behind us.”

Estinien turned to Aza, “ _Can_ she grow wings?”

“Um,” The Beastman shifted awkwardly, “Kind of? It… depends? Bennu is dead, but other beasts fly. They would still be in Wastes, though, so she will need to travel there first.”

Revenant’s Toll sat on the edge of the Wastes, so… that could work then, if she had to walk there. He wasn’t happy taking such a large detour, and to such a wild, untamed place, but he was willing to do it if it meant leaving the assassin in the dust. It didn’t mean it was safe, though. Revenant’s Toll was an independent city-state that squatted on the Borel River just before it fed into Silvertears Falls, a massive lake that had half of Dalamud sitting in it from when the moon fell. Multiple rivers fed into that lake from Ishgard, as well as from the Eorzean strait, so ships from Vylbrand docked there as well. It was an odd place for such a bustling trading hub though – beyond it lay the Wastes, and the only thing that desolate land offered were rare pelts and hides from the monsters than roamed there.

It was also run by The Guild. It was a technocratic government, and last Estinien heard a new group called The Scions of the Seventh Dawn had muscled their way into it, steadily taking control of the trading hub and marshalling swords from Beastmen and Spoken alike, placing them under a banner called ‘The Crystal Braves’. It was troubling news, if only because The Scions kept espousing some doomsday prophecy of an impending Umbral Era and the rise of Primals, getting into bed with some mercenary groups who were _not_ friends with Ishgard. It would be incredibly risky to take Aymeric there, but… no one would recognise him as the King. So long as they weren’t stupid and kept a low profile…

Estinien sighed.

“Fine, Revenant’s Toll it is. But we need to go there _now_ ,” he said, “We have an assassin trying to kill us, remember?”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” Aza said grouchily, turning back to the twitchy Jijiroon, “We need to leave now. Can we? We will help you load boat, and… I will give you lots of shinies and, something rare.”

“Lots of shinies and rare?” Jijiroon seemed to think on it, “How rare…?”

Then came the haggling.

Estinien and Aymeric ended up taking a seat on a thick log lying on the rocky bank as they watched the mummer’s farce unfold. Dusk and Estinien’s mount, Nidhogg (jokingly named due to his monstrously ill-temper), were happily pecking at the soft, muddy ground, digging out worms. Thogun, Aza’s Zu-Chocobo hybrid thing, was docilely squatting in the gravelly mud as Aza dragged the various boxes and bags off her back to present bizarre and weird items to the snuffling Jijiroon. At one point Aza had a fucking _skull_ , painted pitch black with twisting horns sprouting from its head, that had Jijiroon in a tizzy. Estinien decided he didn’t want to know.

Aymeric was cradling his head in his hand, elbow resting on his plated thigh. His eyes were closed, and his nose scrunched, like he had a headache.

“Are you well?” Estinien asked him, wondering if he should edge away in case his friend finally lost the battle with his queasy stomach, “You’re looking a bit grey.”   

“Just hungover, and tired,” Aymeric muttered. He had sobered up and thankfully did not fall off his mount as they rode, but he had drunk and eaten little on account of his sickly stomach. That probably wasn’t helping matters, “I need to sleep.”

“We’ll be on the rat boat soon, I wager,” Estinien said, unhitching his water bottle off his belt and offering it to Aymeric. His friend resisted at first, but Estinien insistently shoved it against his cheek until Aymeric finally accepted it with ill grace, “It looks as if it will be cramped, but I’m sure there will be a dry, flat space for you to sleep your troubles away.”

“My troubles follow me in sleep,” Aymeric said wryly after a mouthful of water, “I keep having…”

He trailed off.

“You keep having…?” Estinien prompted, “Nightmares?”

“I don’t know,” Aymeric murmured, staring into the mouth of the water bottle, “They are odd dreams. I barely remember them, but… I don’t know. I dream of Behemoth, I think, but other things… I can’t recall them…”

“The past few days have been trying for you,” Estinien ventured awkwardly. He tried to recall how he had been when Lord Borel had taken him into his household after his family’s violent death. He’d been an angry brat that needed a good thrashing to wrench his head out of his arse – but Aymeric was too mild and gentle to vent his trauma by lashing out or venting angrily. He tended to bottle everything up and sit on it like a hen brooding over her eggs, “It may be your mind trying to make sense of it all. In a few days, weeks, perhaps months, those dreams will fade.”

Aymeric let out a breathy, short noise like an aborted laugh, “Oh, Estinien… you’re bad at comfort.”

“I made an effort, so you can’t criticise me.”

“No, I can’t,” Aymeric said fondly, screwing the cap back on the water bottle and handed it back, “Thank you, though. I’m sure it will pass. As you said, I’ve had several near-death experiences and… some losses… it’s expected I would lose sleep over it.”

“Yes,” Estinien agreed uncertainly, “But not too much sleep. You need to be as fresh as you can for this journey. Especially if that Vargr comes slithering out of the shadows again.”

Aymeric made a non-committal noise, his gaze wandering towards the Beastmen. It looked as if Aza and Jijiroon had finally come to an agreement on the price of their passage. The Cat turned to them, lifting a hand in a wave.

“Horseface, come! We help Jijiroon load boat, and then sail to Revenant’s Toll!”

* * *

It took a good few hours to load Jijiroon’s wares into the boat and find a space below deck for their Chocobos. Dusk had been curious and easy to coax on, Thogun was indifferent to it all, and Nidhogg had been belligerent and distrusting of the strange, floating boat. Estinien and Aza had struggled at first to wrestle the bird on board, and only succeeded when Thogun got involved. Despite Nidhogg’s broad size, Thogun still outsized him by a considerable margin, so she had bullied and kicked and pecked at him until the destrier sulkily slinked onto the boat and into the hold below.

By the time Jijiroon was content that everything was ready, and that one of his sons (daughters? It was difficult to tell) was happy with running the Trading Post, they set off down the choppy, wild-rushing Borel River.

Aymeric instantly hated it.

Jijiroon had been kind enough to lend them a cabin for ‘Coeurl and Tall Friends’, but it was a cabin clearly made for three fulm high rat people. Even Aza had to dip his head to walk through the door, and there were no beds or hammocks, so they had to make do lying their bedrolls on the floor – which was thankfully dry and covered in a rug that came from some unidentifiable animal with short, bristly fur. It softened an otherwise hard, unyielding floor – not that Aymeric got to enjoy catching some much-needed sleep due to two simple things: this was the first time he’d ever been on a boat, and he discovered that he got _seasick._

He grimaced when the boat hit a particularly bad swell, clutching tight at the wooden railing as his stomach roiled with the vessel’s movements. He kept his eyes closed tight, unwilling to look down into the rushing, frothing water below, in case that made him queasier, and instead focused on breathing slow and deep, his head pounding like a giant was hammering at it.

Never touching wine again. Never getting on a boat again. Never ever.

Footsteps scuffed behind him, and as it wasn’t accompanied by the scratching of claws, it meant it wasn’t Jijiroon or one of his brood. Aza then. Estinien was squatting up on the mast somewhere, keeping an eye out for any beasts or other hostile elements.

“Em is not made for sailing, it seems like,” Aza said next to him, sounding amused, “You are green as moss.”

“Ergh,” was all Aymeric could get out.

Aza laughed then, a lovely, husky noise that Aymeric would’ve happily drank in if he wasn’t occupied taming his unruly stomach. He clenched his jaw when the boat shuddered under their feet again, a sharp, wet wind blustering over them. He felt the peppering of drizzling rain.

“Rain again…” Aza sighed, “Come, Em. You should lie down in cabin before you catch cold on top of bad stomach. Sleep your way through journey. We’re on boat for five days, yes? Yes. Rest and get better in that time.”

“Five days…?” If Aymeric were a lesser man, he would’ve cried at that. They’d only been on the boat for an hour and he was already done with it.

“Five days,” Aza confirmed, and gently grasped his upper arm, “Come, Em,” he repeated in a low murmur.

Aymeric reluctantly opened his eyes as he straightened up. The deck felt unsteady under his feet, and the river water around them was a frothing grey. A few sharp rocks and remnants of trees swept into the river jutted out like ominous teeth, though Jijiroon’s shipmen skilfully navigated around these dangerous obstacles. He quickly moved his gaze to Aza, to distract him from the dangerous, fast-flowing river, and found him to be a much nicer sight.

Aza was smiling at him, a warm, genuine gesture. It made his mouth look very inviting, and Aymeric worked very hard to look him in the eyes. They had unnerved him before, but he was finding a kind of feral beauty about them now. This close he could see that the yellow irises were flecked and ringed with amber, his eyelashes thick and dark and giving him an almost provocative look. If all Beastmen looked this handsome…

“Em?” Aza was no longer smiling, peering up at him in open concern, “Are you okay?”

Aymeric stirred out his dazed staring, “What- oh, yes. My apologies, my mind… drifted.”

“Hmm…” Aza frowned and for one, nervous moment, Aymeric was afraid he saw through him. But the Miqo’te just shook his head and sighed, a small smile playing on his lips, “If Em is dreaming when awake, then Em needs sleep. Come.”

Aza pulled insistently at his arm and slowly they walked towards where the cabins on the boat were when – distantly, something screamed.

They paused – as did the few Rat People on the deck of the boat. Aza tilted his head, his ears flicking forwards attentively. For a moment, all they could hear was the groan of the boat making its way down the river, wind blustering and rain lightly pattering against the wood of the deck, water rushing by them. Aymeric looked up at where Estinien had made a makeshift crows nest, squatting at the very tip of the mast – his friend didn’t seem troubled, raised no alarm so… perhaps nothing then.

Aza still looked a bit uncertain, but he eventually shrugged it off, “Some animal.”

“Some animal,” Aymeric murmured, praying to Halone it was true. He scanned the bank they were following though. It was all rocks and scraggly grass, trees crowding close to the edge with their trunks mottled white and pale green. It was difficult to make anything out amongst those trees, dark shadows lingering beyond those thick trunks. But nothing moved beyond them. Nothing leapt out at them. It was… nothing.

He shrugged it off. Maybe it was some animal after all.

* * *

“Jijiroon’s gone to Revenant’s Toll, missis Bluebird missis, he won’t be back for two weeks!”

Bluebird felt her eyelid twitch in annoyance as Jijiroon’s youngest daughter wringed her hands and peeked up at her with big, doe-like eyes. She didn’t trust those innocent eyes for a second. Jijiroon and his brood were good liars and they bore no love for her after one of her pets, er, ate, one of them that one time. She remembered Aza getting really upset with her for that, and refused to speak to her for almost a year, so it was with _tremendous effort_ that she stayed her hand here.

“Was my little brother with him?” she asked _again_ , “With two Bald-Ears?”

“I don’t know, missis Bluebird missis. I was busy with inventory, when Jijiroon called ‘I am going to Revenant’s Toll early, good deals to be had, lots of shinies’! When I looked outside, Jijiroon was gone!”

“You have three different Chocobo tracks there,” Bluebird said, pointing at the soft mud outside the shack. The tracks were fresh and deeply set – one pair were fucking huge, which were definitely Rations’s, “They’re loud and smelly, you didn’t pick them up with that big nose of yours?”

“The inventory had lots of Elezen cheese, yes, the smelly kind, yes. I smelled nothing.”

Bluebird’s eyelid twitched again.

Eventually she gave up. It was clear Aza had been here, and Jijiroon’s brood disliked her enough to defiantly fend off her questions. She stood on the deck for a moment, looking down the rushing river. They could have asked for passage to just across the river – there were a few points where the current could be calm enough to achieve it but knowing Jijiroon he never did more work than he had to. He could have carried them all the way to Revenant’s Toll but… why? That was a big detour to the capital, big enough to not be worth it.   

The only thing she could do was catch up with Jijiroon.

She walked off the deck and scrambled back up gravelly, slippery path onto more stable ground. If Aza wasn’t with Jijiroon, then she could squeeze him until his eyes popped, to wrestle his location out of him, and if he _was_ with him, well, he was on a _boat_. A very small boat with no escape route. She could sink the damn thing if need be. Everyone would drown, but Aza would wash up and be fine. Eventually. Bluebird might have to beat the water out of his lungs to properly revive him.

But catching up to a boat on foot was tricky. If she had Bennu she could’ve flown after it and burned it down, cackling in triumph. King Behemoth would’ve been fucking useless, though. Bulky, strong and stubborn… but not built for speed. A crippled turtle would be faster than him.

No, Bluebird would need to call down _the big guns_.

Smiling thinly, she unhooked a horn from her belt. It was pitch black and deeply polished, with dull red runes etched around it. A summoning horn, for an untiring, relentless mount. It required _a lot_ of aether though, enough that Bluebird only used it in emergencies. She’d be woozy and ill for a good few hours, but she’ll dose herself with an Elixir before she went in for the kill. The twenty minutes of strength it gave her would be long enough to do her business.

She lifted the horn to her lips and blew. A deep, reverbing noise that buried into her very ribcage droned in the air. Her horns ached from the pitch, her lungs burning and heart aching, the noise carrying, her aether dipping, dipping, dipping, dark spots starting to dance in her vision and her head spinning dizzyingly until-

With a loud, inhuman scream, Sleipnir burst from the Void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they on a boat. also getting further and further away from where they're meant to be. oh dear. 
> 
> Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nightmares, yes, I know,” Aza said, “But you still need to try. Rest, at least. Em looks like corpse. Not attractive.”
> 
> “Thanks.”

Aymeric was peering down at the tiniest baby he had ever seen.

Rather, he _assumed_ it was a baby. Everything had an odd, murky smudged quality to it, like he was peering through rippling, misty glass. There was a small, pinkish babe, tinier than the dewclaw on his front foot, in the arms of a pale, lithe woman. Her face was obscured, a pale bluish white blur, but Aymeric knew her. He knew her as a sister and a friend.

“Ratatoskr,” the pale-blue woman said before a dull, droning noise drowned out the rest of her words. The name echoed around him, _‘Ratatoskr, Ratatoskr, Ratatoskr’_ , and it was strange, so strange. He felt wrong, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. He was curled up, comfortable and content, watching the pale-blue woman and the wriggling pink babe within the safety of his coiled body – but this was wrong. This was… what was this? He wasn’t…

That low-pitched rose to a higher pitch, until his skull felt fit to burst and his eyes burned in agony. The warm scene of the pale-blue woman cradling her babe melted like fresh snow, rushing away in glimmers of white. The ground beneath him was nothing and he tumbled over himself, his wings uselessly flapping and buffeting at the air. Wind caught his wings awkwardly, and he couldn’t breathe around the cold metal in his lung, and he couldn’t _see_ through the flat darkness, wet warmth running over his cheeks, and he realised, _I’m blind, I’m blind, I’m **blind**_ , but he couldn’t stop. He needed to _get away_ , he needed to fly, to keep flying, fly until he was safe and-

He collided into something hard, and instinctively he scrambled and gripped at the hard thing with sharp talons and clawed wings. Rock crumbled beneath his feet, something groaning beneath his weight, but he smelled something over the copper tang, something familiar. _Brother,_ his heart sang, desperate and frantic, and he crawled, pathetically, over the crumbling rock, trying to call to him but only managing a pained, gurgling cry. The metal in his lung was like a frozen thorn, wrenching deeper and deeper into him with each desperate squirm forward.

 _Help…_ he cried, _help me, help me, help me_.

But nobody came-

* * *

-and Aymeric jerked awake with a sharp gasp, finding himself curled up into a tight ball, his hand gripping the front of his chest. He felt clammy and feverish, his blood burning like it was on fire but his skin ice-cold. _A nightmare_ , he thought deliriously, rolling onto his back and feeling the whole room sway and wobble around him, _Just a nightmare_.

The lantern hanging from the ceiling was swinging from side to side, casting strange shadows over the plain, wooden walls of the cabin. Slowly, Aymeric remembered that this was the cabin on Jijiroon’s merchant vessel, that he was lying down on his bedroll and safe but seasick and hungover. He was fine. There was no… his hand drifted over his chest, feeling an odd phantom twinge of pain. Cold metal in his lung, the burning, empty pain in his eyes.

 _I can see_ , he told himself, _it was just a nightmare. Forget it._

He moved his hand from his chest to press his knuckles against his forehead, squeezing his aching eyes tight. The boat groaned around him like a dying beast, the dull roar of rain echoing over it. The noises were oddly soothing, even with his stomach tying itself into tight, queasy knots. He shivered and burrowed deeper into his bedroll, curling back up as he pressed his forehead against his knees. He felt cold… but too hot. His heart felt like a living burning furnace, pumping fire instead of blood. He wanted to crawl out of his skin, it was such an awful sensation.

 _I’m praying that’s seasickness, or the wine,_ Aymeric thought dizzily, letting out a short, strained huff when the boat rocked sharply, followed by the sharp crack of lightning. It was distant, though, and the thunder that followed was a low rumble. He listened to the faraway storm for a while, curled up in his bedroll – occasionally he’d drift into a fitful doze, only to jerk awake whenever he came close to drowsing into full sleep. It was frustrating to the point of near tears.

He eventually wriggled out of his bedroll, clumsily grabbing at his armour and putting it back on. His fingers felt stiff and his head like it was stuffed full of cotton, his vision blurry, but he was not lying in this cabin by himself being utterly miserable. He may as well try to figure out how far along they were, or, if there was anything he could do or… something.

He hitched his longsword onto his belt and carefully picked his way over Aza’s and Estinien’s empty bedrolls, laid out and waiting for their owners to slip into. The cabin opened into a narrow hallway that was low enough that Aymeric had to stoop to walk along it. It was only for three strides, and then he pushed his way outside into the _pouring rain_.

It was like being slapped with a fish, the spray of water was that forceful and cold. He winced, shying back into the safety of the cabins. The rain was coming down in thick sheets of grey, the sky an ominous black as wind howled around them. Jijiroon’s deckhands were scurrying around with frantic energy, tying everything not bolted down as the boat rocked up and down the swells of the river. Aymeric’s stomach rolled with it, but he forcefully kept it down as he squinted into the wet gloom, trying to spot Estinien and Aza.

“Em.”

Aymeric almost headbutted the squat doorframe he startled that badly, and turned to see Aza standing right behind him. The Miqo’te’s hair was wet and unbound, falling about his face in a way that softened the sharp cut of his jaw, water dripping from his clothes and armour to form tiny pools on the wooden floor.

“Sorry,” Aza smiled, his eyes twinkling with mirth at Aymeric’s jumpiness, “Did I scare you?”

“My heart almost left my chest,” Aymeric admitted breathlessly, grimacing when the boat wobbled, “Where did you even come from?”

“I was shitting,” Aza said bluntly and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, presumably in the direction of the lavatory, “Difficult in rocking boat. Jijiroon’s toilet _tiny_. Difficult for _me_ to poop into, so Em and Horseface will... ah, maybe have to go over side of boat, to do business.”

“… I see,” Aymeric said, realising with a sinking feeling in his belly that figuring out the mechanics of using a tiny toilet for a three fulm tall rat man was near in his future, “Thank you for the warning.”

“It is no problem,” Aza said, peering up at him thoughtfully, “Em, are you okay? You look… blushed? Flushed?”

“Flushed?” Aymeric lifted a hand to his forehead. It felt unbearably hot, even against his warm fingers, his skin slick with sweat. He could feel his fringe plaster against his forehead and the back of his neck, and that uncomfortable hot feeling kept sweeping through him, accompanied by a chill following close on its heels. Ah, that wasn’t good, was it?  

“Em,” Aza sounded worried now, “Do you have a fever?”

“A little one,” Aymeric admitted, though he wasn’t sure. While feeling absolutely rotten, he also felt a lot better than when he woke up. Just standing here talking to Aza helped clear the cobwebs from his brain and stretch the stiffness from his limbs, and he was sure it was a combination of an empty belly, dehydration, the lingering hangover and the sheer _stress_ his body had been put through that was making him so ill. It would pass soon, he was sure.

Aza sighed, “Em, you should rest. Long journey after Revenant’s Toll.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Aymeric muttered, “So I thought-”

“You go in cold, pissing rain and make it worse?” Aza cut in, arching his eyebrows. He looked so much like a disapproving Estinien that it threw him somewhat, “Noble Bald-Ears really lack common sense.”

Aymeric frowned at the jab, “I didn’t know the rain was that bad.”

“As you see now, it is bad. So, Em goes to bed,” Aza took his elbow and pulled him back down the hallway. He was terrifyingly strong with a grip like a vice, “Now.”

There was no getting out of it. Aza was as implacable and stubborn as his Chocobo, and much like what Thogun did to Nidhogg, Aza bullied, pushed, and prodded him down the squat hallway and into the tiny cabin, all the way to making him sit on his bedroll. He helped him out of his armour, though, and at that point Aymeric wasn’t sure if his flush was due to the fever or due to Aza’s intimate proximity.

“Sleep and water,” Aza murmured to him, and Aymeric felt his gloved fingers brush against his neck as he lifted his breastplate away, “That is best for fever. Are you thirsty? If yes, then that is why you feel bad.”

Oh, Aymeric was thirsty, he thought wryly, but not exactly for water, “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Aza said, letting out a short, husky laugh. The breastplate was set aside, and then he grasped Aymeric’s left forearm, starting to unbuckle the silver-steel vambrace. A quiet settled over them, broken by the storm buffeting their creaking boat. Aymeric found his gaze wandering over Aza’s face, the swinging lantern above making the Miqo’te’s eyes glint.

Aza had very faint freckles over the bridge of his nose, barely seen against his darkly tanned skin. They were rather cute. Aymeric lowered his gaze when Aza tugged the vambrace free, set that aside, and then pulled at the scale-armoured glove. Warm leather brushed against the inside of his wrist when Aza gently gripped his hand once the glove was off. He didn’t let go as he set the glove aside.

“You have hands like a farmer,” Aza murmured. Aymeric felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest as the Miqo’te held his hand, studying his rough palm and calloused fingers, “These are strong hands.”

“… my father believed hard work built character and good morals,” Aymeric said hoarsely, his throat dry. Aza was tracing a line on his palm with a gloved finger, and Aymeric found himself abruptly craving to feel skin on skin contact. Aza’s ring finger was pressing, lightly, into the dip of his wrist, where his pulse fluttered, cupping his hand, his fingers stroking his palm, tracing the lines there, Gods, _Halone was testing him_.

“He is right,” Aza said, finally releasing his hand – only to grab the other one. He didn’t linger this time, deftly undoing the vambrace and tugging the scale-armour glove free, “I think it is good, someone like you being King.”

“Oh?” Aymeric said, for lack of anything intelligent to say.

“Mm…” Aza looked up at him with a small smile, “Many Ishgard kings… they are like a man looking down at people from a mountain. They sit in the capital, looking down on people – but he is so separate from them, so far away, that they are just ants. Why does he care about ants? How does he even understand them? All his life, people say he is better and- and- in fail?”

“Infallible,” Aymeric corrected quietly.

“That,” Aza looked down at his own gloved hands, slowly curling them into fists, “If you are told that, over and over again, and then sit on throne and look down at ant people, you will not understand them. There will be no… no _sympathy_ , or empathy? Both. You will not have that. But, you know how ant people live, yes? You work like farmer, and see… know…”

Aza trailed off with an expression of absolute frustration, “I don’t- I do not know how to explain in, in Eorzean words. I must sound like stupid child.”

“You’re doing really well,” Aymeric said quickly, “I understand what you mean. It is why… why House Borel rarely interacted with the Houses closer to the capital.”

House Borel were considered Noble Farmers for more than just their livelihood after all. Compared to the gilded, highly educated Houses situated close to the capital, the Borels were considered coarse and rough-mannered. Their fashion was simple, they worked alongside their servants in the fields and building new barns or silos, and they weren’t very fervent in their Halonic beliefs. Oh, they attended daily prayers and such, but it was more of a traditional ritual they adhered too, rather than any true piousness. From what Aymeric heard, it was _much_ different in the capital. The line was starkly drawn between the nobles and the lower classes, where the members of the Houses, minor or high, were treated akin to gods amongst men. It disgusted Aymeric, honestly, and the thought of walking into that sort of environment and having to deal with such people was utterly unappealing. He would have been happy staying in the Borel farms for the rest of his life.

“It is different in the Wastes,” Aza said firmly, “In Wastes, our _khatun_ comes from tribe, from anyone. They need to prove themselves, yes? They need to show they are strong and care and are not selfish. If they lose their way, then we pick a new _khatun_.”

“Then, you don’t…” Aymeric paused, thinking this over, “No nobles? No king?”

“None,” Aza said with a nod, “What use is a noble? They just stand there, look pretty and stick noses in air. Useless. Worse than useless. _Parasites_. Not Em, though. Em is good farmer and kind. I hope when you are king, you will stay kind and remember the ants are people.”

“Ah, I feel like you have too much faith in me,” Aymeric said awkwardly. He didn’t think he was overly kind – common decency was expected from most people, so he shouldn’t come across as all that special, surely, “I may work alongside common farmers in the fields, but I still come a privileged background. I can’t claim to fully understand the plights of the smallfolk.”

“Exactly why Em will be good,” Aza said simply, giving him a faint smile like he was being amusing, “I wish you will be good. I want…”

“…yes?” Aymeric prompted when Aza trailed off.

Aza looked up at him from beneath his eyelashes. That look, combined with his thick, dark eyelashes, his faint, cute freckles across his nose, the way his hair framed his face, softening his jaw… it was criminal, how enticing he looked. Those eyes… how did Aymeric ever think them frightening? In that moment, Aza the most beautiful man he’d ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on.

“… it is nothing,” Aza smiled wistfully and looked away, “Em should be sleeping, yes? Yes.”

Aymeric felt disappointed, but he didn’t push. He did feel dead on his feet – or, er, rump, as he was sitting. It was a challenge to keep his eyes open after each blink, so he just sighed quietly, rubbing at his burning eyes, “I should, but it’s difficult…”

“Nightmares, yes, I know,” Aza said, “But you still need to try. Rest, at least. Em looks like corpse. Not attractive.”

“Thanks.”

“It is truth. I will give Em no pretty lies,” Aza’s smile was definitely mischievous, his eyes twinkling, “Does Em need me to give another bedside story? I can do that. Or sing. I can do that too.”

“There’s no need for mocking,” Aymeric grumbled, “I can sleep fine on my own.”

“No mocks,” Aza’s smile softened, “I know… of bad dreams. Does Em want to talk about them?”

Aymeric hesitated at that. Did he? They were just silly nightmares, but the last one… that one had more clarity but made no sense. Why had he dreamt of being blind, why had he dreamt of frantically crawling, dying and gasping for help that never came? That never happened, that… never happened. He felt unsettled, remembering it, that odd twinge of phantom pain echoing in his chest. He shook his head.

“No, they’re… nothing.”

Aza looked at him for a long moment, the silence between them filled with the creaking of the boat.

“…if Em is sure,” Aza finally said.

Not much else was said after that. Aymeric took off the rest of his armour, kept his longsword within arm’s reach, and went back into his bedroll. Aza remained, sitting next to him with what looking like a knitting project in hand, pulled out of his travel bag. It was a bit of a weird sight, Aza knitting in full armour, but the soft ‘ _click, click, click’_ of the needles sounded nice, and along with the creaking, groaning boat, and lashing rain, Aymeric found himself lulling to sleep.

He didn’t dream this time.

* * *

Estinien was getting sick of the damn rain.

He flexed his half-frozen fingers as he remained crouched on the small crow’s nest this floating tub boasted on its mast. It wasn’t that tall, but it gave him the height needed to survey enough of the malm-wide river to raise the alarm of any incoming threats. It did mean leaving Aymeric mostly in Aza’s responsibilities, but Estinien could grudgingly admit that, _for now_ , the Beastman could be trusted with Aymeric’s personal safety. Besides, Estinien would spot any threat coming towards the boat and neutralise it before Aza could even lift a finger.

He shifted his position, stretching one leg out before returning to his gargoyle-like hunch. The rain was coming down so thick and fast it was difficult to see beyond ten fulms of the boat, enough to see the glistening rocks jutting out of the rocks, barely swerved around at the last minute in the dimming light. They would have to stop soon when night fell unless they wanted to crash the boat and meet a watery death. The current was moving so fast, no man could hope to outswim it – and that was if the various monsters lurking in the river’s depths didn’t attempt to devour them first.

When they stopped, they would have to make a guard shift. Whilst Jijiroon had assured them that his ‘docking spots’ were 100% safe, Estinien would not rest easy unless an armed man stood on guard. The assassin, this _Bluebird_ , was still out there. He wasn’t willing to lean on the assumption she would be following them on foot – if she managed to steal someone’s Chocobo or horse, she could be in hot pursuit and only a day behind. Estinien wasn’t good in calculating the differing speeds between a boat and a Chocobo or horse, but he knew they had made good time and distance, carried as they were by the swift current and favourable winds. Bluebird, as well, would have to contend with the unfriendly, rough terrain. They had long since left behind the gentle sloping farmlands of House Borel – the river bank they were following was rocky and heavily forested, large hills that looked like stacked boulders looming over the thick, crowded trees. It would be difficult to force a mount to canter at top speed through such terrain.

Still… best to be cautious.

He remained up in the crow’s nest until the sun began to sink – difficult to tell behind such thick, dark clouds. The boat began to drift towards the bank at this point, and Estinien saw the rocky river rise transition into loose shale and sand, large enough to accommodate Jijiroon’s merchant vessel.

The boat shuddered as the hull scraped against the riverbed, followed by a thundering crash of the anchor being tossed overboard. The vessel wobbled for a moment, a tug-of-war between the anchor and the violent current, until it jerked to a full stop. Below him, Jijiroon’s brood scurried across the soaked deck like the rats they were, squeaking at each other in a flowing, lilting language that he didn’t know. They secured the boat to the bank, began setting up crystal lamps along the railing of the deck, casting everything into a strange, purple glow. Distantly, thunder rumbled, and when Estinien looked, he could see lightning flash further down the river.

Yes, best they stopped. He doubted they would want to sail through the storm.

Tensing his stiff, bloodless legs, he jumped off the crow’s nest. He almost slipped when he landed, the deck awash with water, but he quickly recovered and straightened up, blowing out a short breath. He was cold as hell… but what was a bit of chill, if it meant Aymeric’s safety? Estinien would suffer the cold it brought gladly.

He moved towards the railing, leaning over to see that they were firmly locked to the shore, and then peered about the shale beach they were on. A forest sat only fifteen fulms away, their trees tall and buried under bright green pine needles. It was difficult to tell through the sheets of grey rain, but he thought he could see eyes blinking out at them from between the thick trunks, reflecting the glittering crystal lamps. Whatever creatures they belonged to though, they didn’t venture onto the beach.

“Tall friend is looking for monsters, yes?”

Estinien glanced over. Jijiroon had waddled up to his side, swaddled in a thick, oiled cloak that dragged on the floor, the only thing visible being his bug-eyes glinting from beneath his heavy hood, and his long snout, beads of water dripping from his bristly whiskers.

“Yes,” he said, “I don’t know if Aza told you, but we are hunted men. It’s best we remained vigilant.”

“Yes, yes, he said. Bluebird,” Jijiroon sounded almost disdainful, though it was difficult to tell with his lisping, squeaking voice, “Very stubborn and dangerous, she is. It is strange, though.”

“What’s strange?”

“Coeurl never said why Bluebird is hunting him this time,” Jijiroon made a snuffling noise, and lifted one of his oversized hands to rub at his snout, “He normally jokes about it, yes, yes. The amount of times Bluebird comes, yelling, ‘where is Coeurl’, and makes mess everywhere… Coeurl pays lots of shinies though, and rare things for Jijiroon to sell, to replace what she breaks. Yes, yes, this is good of him, so we help him.”

Estinien turned his attention fully onto Jijiroon at that, “Bluebird hunts Aza routinely?”

“He never said?” Jijiroon sounded surprised about that, “It is game they play often. A violent game… but the Wastes are unkind. So, their games are unkind, yes? Coeurl will do something to anger or annoy Bluebird, and so she hunts Coeurl, and he leads her across the Wastes, and Eorzea, and other distant places, until she catches him. They enjoy it. Odd, very odd, but Coeurl is odd. Yes.”

Aza was indeed odd. And a  _liar_. ‘Just heard of her’, indeed. Estinien _knew_  it. He filed it away to interrogate the Beastman on later, “Sounds romantic.”

Jijiroon made a weird noise, and it took Estinien a moment to recognise it as laughter, a squeaking tittering noise as the rat man quivered underneath his cloak.

“ _Romantic_!” Jijiroon shook his head, his squeaky laugh dying away, “Ah, Tall friend, we will be making foods soon. Will Tall friend be attending?”

Estinien’s stomach gurgled at the thought of food, but the rain thankfully muffled it, “Depends on the food.”

“Fish. We caught many fish, down this river,” Jijiroon said, “Tall friend likes fish?”

Well enough to eat it. Estinien looked out over the beach once more, scanning for threats, then turned away when he saw none, “Fish will do.”

They can set up watch after eating. Bluebird should still be several ours behind at the very least.

* * *

Sleipnir’s hooves dug into the soft earth, weaving between the pine trees with an unnatural grace. Bluebird clutched tight at the horse’s thick mane, gritting her teeth against her stiff, half-frozen body. She was saddle sore and aching, her head pounding and her stomach clenching from hunger – but she _refused_ to let Aza gained anymore malms on her. The storm had carried that boat like a leaf on the wind, and it was only relentlessly pushing Sleipnir at a hard gallop for malms and malms that allowed her to keep up. She was several hours behind, and if she knew Jijiroon, the little rat would have stopped for the night. It was too dangerous to sail with such low visibility on such a wild current.

She grunted when Sleipnir leaped over a log, her thighs chafing against the uncomfortable, metal armour that covered the mount. There was no saddle to speak of – the true owner of Sleipnir wasn’t given to discomforts like a numb arse, and there were no stirrups either. Bluebird’s thighs were screaming from gripping her to the galloping steed, but she stubbornly ignored it. She was Iriq, she was _born_ in the saddle – she’d be a poor Xaela indeed if she couldn’t endure a near twelve-hour ride.

They ran through the forest for what felt like one long, wet eternity, Bluebird’s teeth chattering until Sleipnir began to slow into a canter, and then a trot. She cursed, kicking her heels into the mount, but Sleipnir just tossed its head and snorted at her.

“Why are you slowing?” she yelled at it, “Go! I need to get to my brother!”

Sleipnir ignored her. It veered to the left and into a small, open clearing that had a clumps of rocks acting as a shallow cave. The demonic mount walked up to it, turned its back to it – and reared.

Not expecting it, Bluebird yelped and tumbled right into that shallow cave, landing hard on her back. As she lay there, stunned and disbelieving, Sleipnir promptly folded its legs and laid down right in front of the cave, blocking the hard rain from blowing in – and trapping her inside. In the dim light, the horse’s eyes glittered a malevolent red, its nose pulling to bare blunt, white teeth.

“Y-You… are you putting me to bed like some child?” Bluebird spluttered, too stunned to be that indignant. She pushed herself up onto her knees, barely avoiding knocking her head on the ceiling, “I have no time for rest!”

Sleipnir snorted at her.

“I am _not_ half-dead!”

She got the impression that if Sleipnir had eyebrows, it would have been raising them at her.

Bluebird sat back with a scowl, pushing her bull-skull helm to rub at her face. Truth was, she was fucking _exhausted_. She had walked through the entire night and morning to reach Jijiroon’s Trading Post, then ridden for twelve hours on Sleipnir… she was drained, and sore, and tired. Even if she reached her target in this state, she… well, she could kill a Bald-Ear easy, even if he was apparently the next Calamity reborn according to her employer, but her _brother_ … no, Aza would thrash her and be fucking insufferable about it.

“Fine,” she muttered, “But a few hours, that’s it. I need to catch up to that boat. If Jijiroon took them across the river, I _need_ to know before I waste my time travelling to Revenant’s Toll.”

Sleipnir tossed its head in agreement.

“Four hours,” she told it, “Then wake me up.”

Sleipnir snorted.

Content with that, Bluebird curled up on the dry floor. She was soaked and shivering and _freezing_ … but this was nothing. She slept through worst and was tough as old leather. Her stomach gnawed with hunger, but she ignored it, curling up tight and curling her fingers against the breast of her furred armour, where the rumpled, creased letter lay.

“I must kill him,” she murmured into the darkness of the cave, her breath misting before her, “It’s nothing personal, but…”

This is what happened, when Kings decided to sire bastards, Bluebird thought irritably. By pure, fucking _accident_ , King Thordan VII fucked the _one_ person he shouldn’t have fucked and mixed two bloodlines that _never should have touched_. It was why Ishgard’s Royal Family had that stupid strict breeding programme. Gods, does no one research their history anymore? Does no one keep track of why their races were made in the first place?

Apparently not.

“Fucking Allagans,” Bluebird grumbled, “Hope you’re enjoying hell, fuckers.”

After all, it always came back to them. They never kept their hands where they belonged, and so every race’s very _genetics_ had their fingerprints. Some more so than others, and Aymeric de Borel… well, poor fucker, was all she could think.

She eased into an exhausted sleep after that, lulled by the falling rain and Sleipnir’s slow, deep breaths. Four hours, and the hunt will resume… a day, or two, and she’ll reach Jijiroon. Then… well, she’ll see, won’t she?    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually had to do calculations on how far a boat will sail depending on wind/current compared to a fucking horse to figure out how far behind Bluebird was I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY. 
> 
> so, if Bluebird was riding a normal mortal horse, she wouldn't be able to catch up to the boat before it reached Revenant's Toll, because the boat could travel up to 100 miles a day (without stopping), whereas a horse can, on average, travel about 50-60 miles a day. Since Bluebird has Sleipnir, she's only limited by her own stamina, since there's no point her riding all through the night and pretty much falling asleep mid-assassination. Aza would never let her hear the end of it. So, with that, I'm gonna say she can travel up to 80 miles a day, which will allow her to catch up to Jijiroon since Jijiroon needs to stop at low-light so he doesn't crash the damn boat, but as it's summer, nights are short, so he stops only for a little while and- 
> 
> ...
> 
> Okay I won't bore you with the rest of the reasoning, but yeah, there you go. 
> 
> Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Horseface,” Aza greeted coolly, “I thought you froze to death in crow’s nest.”
> 
> “You would like that, wouldn’t you, Stray?” Estinien hummed.

Aza felt the boat shudder to a halt around them.

He paused his knitting, his ears perking as he listened. The rain drummed against the cabin’s roof, the boat creaked and groaned as it struggled between its anchor and the current, swaying until its hull sat on the river bed. He couldn’t hear much else beyond that, the rain too much like white noise but… right, Jijiroon would have docked for the night, with the river as it was. Some seasons, Jijiroon would brave it at night, but this summer had proved to be a stormy and wet one – Borel River was just too bloated and swift to chance it.

Next to him, Aymeric stirred a little but didn’t wake up. Resuming his knitting, Aza slanted a glance at the Elezen’s way. Despite his earlier grumblings of bad dreams, he looked rather peaceful – lips slightly parted, inky dark locks tumbling about his face, lightly fluttering from his slow, deep breaths… he could easily see him being the centre of attention in Revenant’s Toll. The adventurers there were attracted to pretty things, and Aymeric was _very_ pretty. No doubt Horseface would get prickly if they were swarmed by admirers though. He’d been grumbling about wanting to keep a low profile down in the Toll.  

Aza scoffed thought, managing to look away from Aymeric’s alluring face and focus back on his knitting. The moment _he_ stepped foot in Revenant’s Toll, all chances of having a ‘low-profile’ were shot out of the water. But that could work in their favour. Aza had a lot of friends in Toll who’d be happy to rustle Bluebird’s breeches by delaying her or sending her round on a wild goose chase while they merrily went on their way. This was the better option, really…

He hummed softly to himself as he considered on who to ask to annoy Bluebird, finding himself fully relaxed for the first time since he bumped into Aymeric. He was growing more comfortable in the Elezen’s presence, he realised, and a part of him hoped that he would eventually-

Horseface walked into the cabin.

Aza’s mood immediately dipped, his ears flicking back as he glanced up to see the Dragoon duck through the low doorway. He still had his helm on, droplets of water sliding down the polished, curved surface and hiding his eyes from view. All Aza could see were pale, cold lips pressing into a thin, unhappy line, the eyeless helm giving him an intimidating air.

“Horseface,” Aza greeted coolly, “I thought you froze to death in crow’s nest.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you, Stray?” Horseface hummed, sounding darkly amused, then nodded towards his fellow Elezen, “Is he asleep?”

Aza hesitated, keeping the dragoon in his peripheral as he glanced at Aymeric, “Yes.”

“Good,” Horseface tugged his helm off. His long, silvery hair tumbled free, immediately sticking to his wet armour. Almost casually, Horseface tucked his helmet under his arm, shifting his weight to one leg and looking utterly at ease – Aza watched him cautiously, the tip of his tail flicking from side to side.

Where Aymeric was handsome in a way that was warm and approachable, Horseface was the opposite. His face was all harsh angles, with high cheekbones and a thin nose, his hair straight and silky. Truth be told, Horseface wouldn’t look out of place amongst the Kuganite’s courtesans – the rick folk there tended to like tall, cold-looking Elezens when they wanted to be _dignified_ about their debauchery. Imagining Horseface as a courtesan though…

“Something amusing?” the dragoon asked him, his tone suspicious.

“Horseface reminds me of someone, standing like that,” Aza said, ducking his head to hide his small grin. He started bundling his knitting project up, aware it would have to be continued another time, “Jijiroon has stopped the boat. Is it food time?”

“Yes, the rat people have prepared some sort of fish meal,” Horseface said, his intense stare not wavering from Aza. It was a little creepy, truth be told, but Aza was slowly becoming desensitised to the Bald-Ear’s rude staring. It was hard to find him intimidating when his hair was all wet anyways – he looked like a drowned rat.

“Oh, Jijiroon makes good fish meal,” Aza shoved his knitting project into his travel bag then glanced at Aymeric. He was still snoozing away, deep asleep, “Should I…?”

“Leave him,” Horseface said curtly, “We’ll save some food for him to eat after he wakes up.”

Aza hesitated. Aymeric should get some hot food in him soon since he had eaten little over the past day. But, well, he supposed needed the sleep too. With a sigh Aza pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dust off his buttocks, “Are we doing guard?”

“Obviously,” Horseface scoffed, “It’s too much to hope that your assassin friend is pursuing us on foot. Most likely she’s stolen some poor bastard’s work Chocobo, but for all I know she can summon some… some _magical_ mount with Garlean rockets shoved up its arse, running down the river as we speak,” he let out a short, huffing noise that almost passed as wry laughter, “It wouldn’t surprise me after she raised the bloody dead…”

“Summon a-” Aza paused, an awful realisation coming over him. He _forgot_ … “Oh. Shit.”

Horseface slowly looked at him with a flat, dead-eyed stare of a man beyond surprise, “…she can, can’t she.”

“Um…” Aza fidgeted with his gloves, “It does not have rockets in its arse?”

“Fury fuck me,” Horseface sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “How fast can this thing go?”

“Quite fast, but we are faster,” Aza said quickly. He had ridden Sleipnir a few times. While the powerful mount could canter for an eternity and at a swifter pace than Rations, there was no way it would have been able to keep up with the speed the river’s current carried them. Plus, there was the terrain to think of. Bluebird didn’t _quite_ have the aether to feed into Sleipnir’s flying ability, thankfully, otherwise she’d already be on the boat causing a ruckus.

“With stops, she will be… a day behind?” Aza guessed, “But, terrain is awful here. May slow her enough until we reach Dravanian Forelands. Then the mountains will cut off the ground path. She will have to go long way, while we go down river.”

Horseface relaxed a little at that, “Could we keep the boat going without stops?”

“If you wish to drown, yes,” Aza said blandly, “Jijiroon master ship… steerer? Whatever word is. Jijiroon knows how to sail. If Jijiroon says the river too dangerous at night, it is too dangerous. We will have to stop. But… so will Bluebird. She needs to sleep and eat like anyone else.”

“Hmm…” Horseface rubbed his chin in thought, “Still, we’ll do guard rotations. I will take the first shift, you the second until dawn.”

“Not Em?”

“She’s trying to _kill_ him, what’s the point of making him stand out there as an obvious target?” Horseface rolled his eyes and tossed his helmet onto his bedroll, its heavy thud muffled by the thick fabric, “Go grab food. I’ll go on guard once you come back. We’re _not_ leaving Aymeric alone anymore in case she comes slithering out of the river, poisoned dagger in hand.”

Aza frowned, feeling a little irritated at the ordering about. But by his feet Aymeric muttered quietly in his sleep, so Aza bit his tongue and stifled his annoyance as much as he was able. No point waking Aymeric up by boxing this moron about his stupid bald ears. So, with a contemptuous flick of his tail, he stuck his nose up into the air and tried to march out the room with utmost dignity. A bit difficult when stepping over bedrolls and travel packs, but he managed it.

Horseface rolled his eyes at him as he passed him, but he was just jealous of Aza’s far more superior sneer.

“Prick,” Aza muttered under his breath once he was in the hallway, door safely shut behind him. He flinched when thunder abruptly boomed directly overhead, holding his breath as he instinctively waited for the heavy ‘ _fwmpth’_ of wings but… oh, no, just wind and rain… it wasn’t…

Though, it was weird how this storm was following them. Aza gazed up at the ceiling suspiciously before scurrying down the hallway. There were narrow, low-ceiling steps that led into the bowels of the boat. Thunder continued to rumble and growl, the boat rocking gently where it was anchored to the shore, but Aza firmly told himself that it was just a normal, Eorzean storm. It was _fine_.

Below deck, the Qiqirns had been hard at work tending to dinner. Being a small merchant vessel, it didn’t have much excess space. The cabins above normally only held Jijiroon and any ‘important friends’ he was transporting (i.e smuggling) into Eorzea or Revenant’s Toll. Below deck was where all the other Qiqirn sailors slept, ate and enjoyed their downtime. A long table was situated in the middle of the long room, small hammocks hanging from the wooden beamed ceiling. Several buckets were haphazardly placed everywhere, pinned in place by wet sandbags surrounding them. One bucket was overflowing, and every gentle rock of the boat had the rainwater lapping dangerously at its metal rim.

But despite being leaky, cramped and cold, spirits were high in the Qiqirn’s living quarters. The sailors and Jijiroon were all crowded around the long dining table (in fact just a broad slab of wood that had seen better days, propped up with sandbags, with miscellaneous items acting as stools), already tucking into the fish-heavy meals. Trout stew, judging by the smell, with loaves of bread and… ah. Raw eggs. He forgot how Qiqirns loved their eggs.

“Coeurl!” Jijiroon beckoned to him with his clawed fingers, and Aza obediently ambled over to him. The round-bellied Qiqirn offered him a happy wrinkle of his long snout, baring needle-like teeth in an imitation of the Spoken-smile, before speaking in the language of the Steppe Traders (jokingly called _Qestiri_ , after the mute traders of Reunion), much to Aza’s relief, “We not talk all boat ride! Sad, this makes me!”

Aza returned the smile, taking a seat on an upturned bucket next to Jijiroon, and eased into the familiar language of home, “Sorry, I was babysitting… and your Qestiri is still bad, Jijiroon. Did you even practice?”

“No, no, no time for practice,” Jijiroon heaved a large sigh, pushing a large bowl of off-white broth Aza’s way, “Drink- no, eat?”

“Eat,” Aza confirmed, taking the bowl and picking up a spoon. It smelled lovely, and his stomach gave a loud, whiny grumble. Gods, he hadn’t eaten since mid-morning, and even then it had just been a handful of blackberries he snagged off a bush they passed on the road, “So, how is Jijiroon today?”

“Jijiroon _good_ , very good. Happy. Coeurl gave me many rare things. Many,” Jijiroon nodded, plucking up a large, round egg. He started gently tapping a hole in it with his sharp finger-claws, “Curious about, ah, about… _Elezens_.”

Aza became a little wary then. Jijiroon was a good friend and, ah, _business partner_ , from time to time, but he was still liable to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. He was slick as butter when trying to sell something, but in bars, at the dinner table, just idle conversation? He was like a broken sieve, spewing secrets everywhere. It had gotten Aza into some hot water from time to time with Revenant’s Toll’s Merchant Guild – as well as with some… other… organisations. It was why he was happy to keep Aymeric and Estinien as far from the Qiqirn as much as possible. If Estinien distrusted him _now_ …

“They’re just, um, travellers, trying to get to the capital of Ishgard,” Aza said with faux-lightness, wrinkling his nose when Jijiroon started lapping up the egg yolk through the little hole he made with a narrow, worm-like tongue, “No one important.”

“Mm,” Jijiroon licked the egg-white off his snout, giving Aza a shrewd look, “They have… _Borel_ on chest.”

“Ah, knights in service,” Aza said.

“Hmm,” Jijiroon said, clearly in disbelief, “Hunted by _Bluebird_?”

“Ahhhhh… well, you know how it is with me and my sister,” Aza laughed awkwardly, wondering if he should take his bowl and go, “I take a job, she needs to do the opposite, make it a competition. It’s nothing serious.”

“Boat…  hmm, break boat?”

“Will she break the boat? Nah, she won’t,” Aza lied. If she had the means to, she would sink this floating tub to the bottom of the river bed and cackle on the shore until he washed up. But, she _didn’t_ have the means to. The rest of her beasts were down in the Wastes, and the only one that she _could_ use here now, barely obeyed her. No, worst she could do was angrily chase after them on Sleipnir and be out of reach.

Jijiroon seemed content with that, “Good, good. Bad things if _Bluebird_ break boat. Lose many shinies.”

“Yeah…” Aza coughed into his hand, and pushed to his feet, “Sorry, Jijiroon. I should go back to my companions. Ho-ooor… _Esty_ is a very cautious fellow. He wants to set up a watch.”

“Watch? In storm?” Jijiroon gave a small squeaky burst of laughter, “Welcome to rain!”

“Tell me about it,” Aza grumbled before walking away with his bowl of fish broth.

Instead of going back to Horseface and Aymeric, though, he went further down. In the bottommost deck was where Jijiroon stored his wares – and kept a few Chocobo stalls. Once a blue moon Jijiroon managed to get his hands on a breeding Chocobo to ferry off to Revenant’s Toll to the highest bidder – whilst Waste Chocobo were more robust and longer lived, Ishgardian Chocobos had those queer abilities to run on any surface. Plus, their fancy plumage made them popular for Domans and Kuganites.

“Oh, Rations…” he sighed as he approached his friend’s stall. Rations greeted him by nibbling on his ear, “Mm, I’ve missed you too, buddy. How’ve your neighbours been.”

 _“Wrrrkk. Chrr. Kweh!_ ”

“Oh, yeah, Nidhogg does look like a lil’ bitch,” Aza slanted said destrier a sideways look. Horseface’s mount was bad-temperedly pecking at his stall door, leaving big chunks in the hardwood. The dark-feathered Chocobo was even giving him the evil eye, but it quickly looked away when Rations hissed warningly at him. Hah, cowed already, huh? He wondered if Horseface would be so easy to get under his thumb.

“Made yourself the boss already, hm?” Aza chuckled, resting his elbows on the stall as he idly prodded his stew with the spoon he took with him, “Dusk?”

“Kweh!” A fluffy dark blue head popped over the opposite side of Rations’s stall. Unlike Nidhogg, Dusk was like a bubbly ray of sunshine. His big, doe-eyes blinked at the broth, his short beak opening curiously.

“No, this is for me,” Aza said, smiling, “Has Jijiroon been feeding you?”

“Chrrr…” Dusk gave puppy-eyes, indicating that he was on the verge of dying on starvation, please give him a mouthful of lovely, hot fish broth!

“Wark!” Rations huffed, fluffing her feathers up, indicating that Dusk was a filthy, sweet-tongued liar.   

“Ah, those eyes don’t work on me,” Aza tutted, spooning up some broth, “Sorry.”

Dusk pouted as much as a Chocobo could, and Aza started to eat his broth, feeling a tension he didn’t know he held drain out of him. Chocobos were great. They were such pure, lovely creatures, even ones as bad-tempered as Nidhogg. Bluebird once joked that he was going to pull a Goro and marry Rations one day, and honestly, if Aza _had_ been a Goro, he probably would’ve married Rations. Chocobos weren’t backstabbing cheaters, for one.  

Thunder rumbled again, and Aza sighed. But he wasn’t a Goro, or a Vargr, or an Iriq or a Borlaaq. He was technically no-one, a stateless orphan who didn’t really belong anywhere, but could live everywhere, if he needed to. Some days he was fine with it, but other times… he felt a bit bitter not properly belonging anywhere.

Rations cooed at him, her scarred beak gently nudging his cheek. He smiled at her.

“I’m okay, just thinking dumb things,” He let the spoon drop into his bowl and reached up to scratch under her chin, “What do you think of Em?”

“ _Wrrk_.”

“Yeah, he’s a dork,” Aza frowned into his bowl, “But he’s kind.”

“ _Kweh._ ”

“I like him,” Aza admitted, picking up his spoon again, “But I know better.”

“ _Krrr…?_ ”

“As nice as he is, he’ll be Ishgard’s King,” Aza muttered, “Kings are not friends with Beastmen. He’ll give me my favour, no doubt, but when everyone starts reminding him of how things are meant to be, I’ll be pushed aside and forgotten about.”

It was how things went for those stuck with the title of Beastmen… friends when they were useful, but when they weren’t they were nothing more than invading pests, plaguing the good folk of Eorzea. It was better in Limsa Lominsa, they were tolerant down there being salty pirates and privateers and all, but they sat on their own island doing their own thing, while everyone else…

Aza glumly stirred his broth, his appetite lost.

He really liked Aymeric, he realised sadly, but he knew it wouldn’t end well, going down that path.

* * *

Bluebird was stiff as a board when Sleipnir woke her up with a sharp bite on her tail. She cursed softly, uncurling from her tight little ball. Her muscles were sore, her armour still damp and smelling of wet dog, her head pounding from dehydration and her stomach cramping with hunger. Gods, she was fucking _dying_. But no, she had a boat to catch, she didn’t have time to hunt or eat or lie here feeling miserable.

She had time to drink though. The rain still thrummed quietly against the roof of the squat, shallow cave, and Bluebird groggily crawled deeper into it until she hit the very back. Water dribbled through the cracks, making a very tiny spring deep and wide enough for Bluebird to cup her hands into the clear water and greedily slurp it up. It soothed the needle-like burn in the back of her throat, though her head still ached, and she crawled back to Sleipnir who watched her with too intelligent eyes.

Her aether was on fumes, she realised. Too little food, too little sleep, too much stress, it was regenerating much too slowly, “Sleipnir,” she croaked, “Shift your ass.”

The demon-horse obeyed. With a snort, it heaved itself onto its thick, powerful legs, moving away from the mouth of the cave. The rain was still coming down in thick, gloomy sheets, freezing cold and cutting her right down to the bone when she staggered out into it. Above the clouds had turned a deep, dark purple, lightning crackling and snapping like the Churning Mists, or when the rains reached the… Wastes…

 _Already?_ She thought in surprise, looking up into the roiling sky above. She thought The Beast had been out for another day, expecting it to meander or ignore her calls to explore Ishgard a little more. It was why the storm had been so distant – strange for it to answer her so obediently. Was that a good sign? Bad? Mom always said to be most cautious of The Beast when it was seemingly docile.  

Still glancing upwards, Bluebird moved to Sleipnir and heaved herself onto its broad back. Her thighs were achy and saddle sore, but she grimly ignored it as she took a big handful of Sleipnir’s mane, tugging its head towards the river. Above, the thunder growled and purred, and when she breathed in deep, the air was crackling and alive with Wind and Lightning aether both.

“One last push,” she murmured, digging her heels into Sleipnir’s sides and letting the tireless mount carry her onwards at a fast canter. It was early morning by her guess, with how dark it was, the very far horizon bruised a dark purple and blue. Jijiroon will be pulling up the anchor soon, and she intended to get as many malms in as she could before he did.

Once Sleipnir was at a comfortable pace, cantering parallel to the winding, rocky bank of Borel River, Bluebird closed her eyes. She could feel the force of Sleipnir’s hooves striking the loose-stoned earth beneath them, she could feel the freezing cold rain soaking her to the bone, the harsh, cutting wind, the smell of river water and wet mud and forest and life and ozone. She let herself feel and smell and experience all these things before pushing a little higher, towards the clouds, and whispered:

_Quetzalcoatl._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tune in next time for exciting boat dramas on the river! 
> 
> (how do i slowburn it's just easier to make people thirsty for each other nfhhdshs)
> 
> please comment/kudos if you enjoyed...!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Em better hope the Holy See do not hunt dragons anymore, eh?”

Aymeric was dreaming.

He _knew_ he was dreaming too, a bizarre lucidity he had never experienced in sleep before – yet everything felt so _real_. The gravelly sand crunched beneath his boots, the air he breathed was painfully hot and dry, the smell of dust catching in his throat. He could even feel beads of sweat roll down his back and his neck, and when he wiped at his forehead, he could feel dampness on his fingers. It felt real. But it… wasn’t.

Was it?

Confused, he looked about himself. He was standing close to the shore of what he assumed to be a dried-up lake. Its bed had a few pathetic, sickly grey puddles bubbling up between the large cracks, probably formed by the relentless sun beating down on them. There was a strange smell, something… dead. It smelled dead, and a squirm of uneasiness coiled in his gut as he looked at one tiny puddle near to him. Filmy bubbles popped and burbled on its oily surface. It looked like poison.

Disturbed, Aymeric looked away from the water and squinted towards the horizon. He could see something huge loom in the distance – round but… it looked like an empty egg cracked open, but the sun glare was too strong to make any details out. A hot gust of dry wind blustered from the thing’s direction, and on it a whisper carried.

_…ac…mea…gigea…th…eth…tie yor…_

It sounded both alien and familiar. The words… he couldn’t tell what language it was, but he… _knew it_ … he knew it, and knew that voice. That voice…

_The Moon Prison fell… right into Silvertear Falls. The prison broke open like an egg, and the dragon inside…_

That story. When Aza told him it, parts of it sounded familiar, even though the Halonic Church had a different interpretation of Dalamud’s Fall. The broken thing in the distance, this dried lake, was this… the Wastes? Silvertear Falls? The remains of Dalamud?

_…Hyear…num…gyusya….ee…Dia oz…ruinien…_

The sun glared down at him. Tiny, poisonous puddles murmured at him from where they stubbornly pushed through the dried cracks of the lakebed. The whisper… sang. A lonely, strained noise. Alien but familiar…

_The dragon inside…_

Aymeric walked forwards. The whispering song pulled at him.

_…Hyear…num…gyusya…dewee…clamour yor…_

In a way that only dreams could be, the walk took barely seconds. Aymeric crossed a distance that should have taken him at least a day, and he stood in the dark, looming shadow of the towering structure. Its walls were dusty red, lines of blue that glowed faintly, flickering as if living on the barest of aether. The entire thing groaned and creaked like rusting scaffolding, embedded so deep into the lakebed that Aymeric wondered if he was only seeing a portion of it, like how an iceberg hid its bulk beneath dark, murky waters. Stretching impossibly high, its broken walls looked like jagged teeth thrusting into the clear sky, centuries of sand and wind eroding its edges until they were blunt and dull.

It was even hotter here, despite standing in the shadow. The entire structure just radiated _heat_. And aether. It brimmed with it. But stagnant. It prickled his skin uncomfortably, and it somehow carried the stench of rot.

 _The dragon inside…_ _it still lies there, in Dalamud’s empty shell,_ Aza’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, _but no one goes near it. The land is cursed around it. People say you hear a song, when you get close, and it drives you mad._

_…chiess… vinan jambea… gigeadeth… tie yor…_

The blood remembers. The phrase leapt to the forefront of Aymeric’s mind abruptly, an echo of anger and grief that – wasn’t his? But felt as if it was his own. He tried to turn away from the broken egg structure, lifted his hands to press over his ears, to drown out the song, but even then, the whispering dug into skull and continued, and continued, and continued.

He staggered as he turned, and-

The dried lakebed, the structure, everything, erupted into swirling flame, ash flying high and choking him. He gasped, falling to his knees – a heavy weight on his back all but dragging him down. It was so heavy, he couldn’t… stand, but it felt all wrong. He felt all wrong. For a brief, bewildering moment, he thought, _this body isn’t **right**_. Should he have – wings, or, arms and legs, or just legs, and- what? What was he meant to be?

 _Thy blood remembers,_ a voice rumbled at him through the swirling flame and ash, curdled with rage and hatred, _It **remembers** , tainted as it is. _

A shadow morphed from the fires, dark and jagged, red maw glowing with heat and empty sockets weeping congealing blood. In those empty eyes, a dark red flame flickered, pulsing in time with an unseen heartbeat. Aymeric couldn’t move, paralysed beneath its blind glare as it heaved a stale, hot breath, looming over him. Its dark scales were sloughing off its long, serpentine body, its wings barely clinging together from stringy sinew and rotting flesh, the stink of decay so overpowering it almost made him gag.

 _Silence thy Dragonsong,_ the shadow, the _dragon_ , hissed at him, its clawed foot coming down hard on _-_ on Aymeric’s _wing_. The pain was _agonising_ , the dragon’s sharp talons tearing through fragile feathers and delicate membrane both, pinning him down on the smouldering, burning ground as it pushed its rotting snout close to him, red-hot maw open wide as if to devour him whole, _And hearken to **mine own** -_

* * *

He woke up.

Aymeric did not move upon waking. For a long moment he stared up at the ceiling, vaguely aware of his body violently shaking alongside his racing heart, his body damp with cold sweat. He did not think of anything, the dream sickeningly vivid and squatting in the very forefront of his mind. He could still… _smell_ that… _thing_. Could still feel it looming over him, as if it was an invisible spectre panting down his neck, its claws digging into his wing and ripping it apart, the _pain_ , the-

“Em?”

A husky and drowsy voice punctured through the cold, numb haze that had blanketed him. Aymeric almost flinched from the closeness of it, and his gaze slid from the ceiling to see – Aza, his hair unbound and mussed, sitting up in his own bedroll to squint tiredly at him. His silken undershirt was sloping dangerously off one shoulder, but not even the tempting, seductive line of Aza’s collarbone could distract him from the sheer ‘what the fuck’ of his dream.

“Who’re you talkin’ to?” Aza mumbled sleepily, rubbing at his eye, “Em was speaking in odd language…”

“What?” Aymeric croaked, wincing at how his throat burned, “No, I… I was dreaming, and…”

Wait, ‘odd language’? That dragon. Had it spoken through _him_ -

He jolted upright – too quick. The room wobbled a little, and not from the nauseating rocking of the boat. He sucked in a deep breath, steadying himself, and cradled his aching head in one hand. Gods, he felt like the Fury Herself was jamming Her spear into his skull. His eyes burned so fiercely too, and he squeezed them shut to try and ease the ache. This was… he was probably dehydrated and hungry and ill. This wasn’t…

A flicker of a memory of that rotting snout shoving close to his face made him flinch. He opened his eyes, his hand resting in his lap flexing slowly as if to assure himself that yes, that was _his_ hand and now… a wing or… claws… whatever he’d been in that dream. He didn’t know. He couldn’t recall what shape he took.

“Em?” Aza repeated slowly, sounding a bit more alert now, “Are you okay? You look ill. If you are going to vomit, do it on Horseface’s bedroll, please.”

“No, I’m not…” Aymeric lifted his head, “I’m simply… famished, and thirsty. It has made me somewhat dizzy. That’s all. I’m fine.”

Aza looked at him for a very long moment, clearly disbelieving.

“…well, Em does need food and water,” Aza muttered, and turned away to rummage close to his travel bag, “Lucky you, I am prepared. Look.”

The Miqo’te turned, and in his hands was a ceramic bowl filled with pale broth with white lumps – fish, Aymeric’s nose told him – and a dark water bottle. Aza’s, he recognised, made from that strange, smooth material that wasn’t metal but too hard to be leather.

Aymeric accepted the items with a murmured thanks, surprised to feel the ceramic bowl was still hot. Aza must’ve had a food warming fire crystal on hand, which were… fairly expensive to have. How did he get one? Aymeric let the little mystery, and the food, distract him from his whirling thoughts, clenching the spoon that came with his broth tight enough to hide the tremor in his hands. He could feel the weight of Aza’s keen stare though. He wasn’t fooling him.

“Did Em have bad dream again?” Aza asked him.

Aymeric delayed in answering by stuffing his face full of fish broth. Mostly because he was genuinely starving, and his stomach felt empty enough to cannibalise itself – but the bowl was quite small, and all too soon it was all gone, and Aza was still patiently waiting for a response. Aymeric stared mournfully into his now empty bowl.

“…yes, I did,” he finally answered, setting the bowl aside on the floor and unscrewing the lid of the water bottle. He took a much-needed swig. Then; “You said I was talking in an odd language?”

“Mm,” Aza picked up the empty bowl and put it somewhere out of sight, though Aymeric could hear it clinking against the hard, wooden floor, “It was very strange. I have heard many languages, and speak many, but that one I have not heard before. It was like…”

Aza mimicked it, a low, lilting noise that rumbled deep in the chest. Aymeric was disturbed to find that snatches of it sounded _understandable_ to him, though what Aza was saying was random nonsense that couldn’t be strung into an intelligible sentence. The language sounded exactly like the song in that broken egg structure, and… the rotting dragon. An awful chill swept through him at the thought.

How did Aymeric even know that language? Why was he even _speaking it in his sleep?_

“Oh,” was all he could say, “I see.”

“Em knows it,” Aza said shrewdly, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, “What was your dream, Em?”

Aymeric didn’t even want to know what his dream had been. His stomach still had that awful sick-fear feeling curdling it, and the mere thought of trying to understand and dissect what the _fuck_ that dream had even been about was… no. He wanted to shove it out of his memory and hope it was never dreamt again. It may’ve been a fever dream. Gods, he was _praying_ it had been a fever dream.

“It’s… it was nonsense,” Aymeric said quietly, “It didn’t mean anything.”

“Tell me.”

An awkward silence fell between them when Aymeric remained quiet. The boat filled it with creaking, and above the dull drone of rain and rumbling thunder echoed. Aza was staring at him with those eerie, beastly eyes, his expression utterly neutral. Somehow Aymeric had the impression Aza would sit there and stare at him until he caved.

“I dreamt of… a dried-up lake with an odd structure in its centre,” Aymeric began, still unsure on what he’d actually seen, “It was… red? Yes, red with blue, glowing lines, and was shaped like an egg that had cracked open. Something was singing in it, though I… couldn’t make out the words…”

He paused to glance at Aza, sure he’d see confusion or mockery, but there was none of that. Aza instead tilted his head at his pause, blinking curiously at him without a hint of judgement in his gaze. To Aymeric it was sounding silly already, but… Aza’s silent acceptance prompted him enough to continue.

“Then everything burst into flames,” Aymeric frowned, looking down at his hand again, “I… fell? No, I’m not sure. I felt _wrong_ , somehow. The wrong… shape. I felt that I should have _something_ that I didn’t. I’m not sure. It sounds insane, I know, but that’s what I felt,” he clenched his hand tight, taking a short, quick breath, “A dragon slithered out of the flames, and… told me…”

Told him…?

Aymeric abruptly found himself drawing a blank. The dragon had spoken to him, had almost tore his wing right off as it snarled and hissed at him, but the words… it was all jumbled up into senseless noise. He couldn’t… remember? No, he could, he _should_ , he knew it as a gut feeling – he _needed_ to remember.

“Told me, that… a song? A Dragonsong…? I need to… something,” Gods, fuck, no, he couldn’t recall it. Aymeric pressed his knuckles hard against his forehead, almost ready to cry from frustration alone. Halone _damn it_ , could he not catch a break this once? “Godsdammit. I can’t _remember_.”

“It is okay,” Aza murmured, and Aymeric felt him gently touch his bicep with rough, calloused fingers, “Do not force it. But, Em, the lake… did the lake also have, um, silver water? Little puddles? That stank?”

“Yes…” Aymeric lowered his hand, Aza’s touch on his arm pleasantly warm, “Yes, there were. It was filmy, like oil.”

“I see,” Aza’s hand dropped away, “I think you dreamt of Silvertears Falls.”

“What?” Aymeric looked at him, took in Aza’s worryingly grim expression, “I’ve never seen Silvertears Falls in my life.”

“It is where Dalamud fell, remember?” Aza’s gaze lowered, “It fell in the lake, and cracked open. Then Bahamut came out and burned everything. The lake… it is dried up, the little water left poison, and it no longer makes aether. Eorzea is starved because of it.”

Aymeric knew of that theory. According to some historians, Eorzea had once been saturated with potent levels of aether due to the endless spring that was Silvertears Falls. With Dalamud falling directly into it, however, it had disrupted the flow and caused the aether spring to dry up. Eorzea’s aether levels had been in steep decline ever since. It was why such aether-intensive monsters such as Behemoths lingered more in the Wastes, where trace amounts of it still pushed through the remains of Silvertears Falls. Of course, that was all theory, and no one had proven it. Many people scoffed at the thought of Silvertears Falls being a source of aether, and instead pointed to how commercial consumption of aether was outstripping the natural regeneration of it. Some blamed lack of piousness towards the Twelve, and how they withheld aether as punishment. There were many conspiracy theories as to why, but the Silvertears Falls Theory seemed the most likely to Aymeric.

“I have seen it from distance,” Aza continued, “It is like Em described: Dalamud looks like a broken, red egg, buried half in the dried-up lake with poisoned water. If you get too close, you… hear a voice. It pulls at you. People sometimes follow it, and they come back… wrong. Tempered.”

“Tempered?”

“Tempered,” Aza repeated, “It is when you are enslaved by another’s aether. You serve your master, endlessly. You have to die, if you are Tempered. This is known in the Wastes.”  

Well, that was disturbing.

“I don’t… understand,” Aymeric said blankly, “How am I able to dream of this…? What is the link to the dragon? Why am I dreaming of this _now_?”

“It seems random, but…” Aza began thoughtfully, “There must be reason for this to happen now, and not before. But, another question: what about it?”

“What?”

“Well, Em says he dreams of Dalamud,” Aza said slowly, “And then a dragon. Dalamud is where Bahamut sleeps. The Calamity. What is connection between these and Em?” he paused. Then; “What did the dragon look like?”

“The dragon…” Aymeric made a face at the memory, “It was rotting. Its body was serpentine, with four legs and a pair of wings, dark scales that were, er, peeling off it, and horns that swept forwards like an… an Aldgoat.”

“Hm,” Aza looked surprised, “Strange. I thought the dragon would be Bahamut. But it does not sound like him.”

What? “You know what Bahamut looks like?”

“Ah,” Aza blinked, then briefly looked alarmed before his expression schooled into something more neutral, “Well, um, many people in Wastes do! A lot of, ah, history has him pictured. Drawn? Yes, drawn. I have seen pictures. They all look the same, so, um, that is how I know. Yes.”

Aymeric frowned at him, because that sounded… a little fake, “I see.”

“But if the dragon is not Bahamut,” Aza said hurriedly, clearly wanting to push past the awkward moment, “Then what dragon was it? A dragon that is linked to Dalamud?”

“I don’t know,” Aymeric said tiredly, “The Holy See doesn’t mention Bahamut in the first place regarding Dalamud’s Fall, let alone another dragon.”

“I bet Bald Ears say it was Halone’s doing,” Aza rolled his eyes in a clear show on what he thought on that, “To punish us Beastmen, or something.”

Aymeric said nothing, because well, yes, that was the Ishgardian story of Dalamud’s Fall in a nutshell. Dalamud’s Fall was considered an act of the Twelve, to destroy an arrogant Allagan monstrosity whilst punishing the wicked Beastmen for their frequent invasion into Ishgardian lands. Aymeric knew better than to believe that to be the absolute truth, but… did _anyone_ know what the truth of that calamitous day? Everyone was who involved in it was long dead, and the City States had twisted and mangled the truth until it suited their own ends.

But still, what did this even _mean_? Why was Aymeric dreaming of dragons and Dalamud? Who was the dragon? _Why was this happening_? Those tales of dragon blood in the Royal Family… those were just _stories_. Unless…

“Is Em still hungry?” Aza asked abruptly, “You look like a corpse. You need more food.”

“No,” Aymeric said dully, “It’s fine. I’m… not hungry.”

“Lies,” Aza tutted, “You are. Here. I stole- umm, Jijiroon gave this to me. You can have it.”

The Miqo’te rummaged in his travel bag and procured… an apple. It was bright red, round and clear of any blemishes. It looked very familiar to the apples that grew in one of the Borel Orchards, and Aymeric was certain that the farmer in charge of those wouldn’t willingly sell to Jijiroon or Aza due to being incredibly prejudiced. He was too tired to get into a discussion on the morals of scrumping, though, so he accepted the pilfered apple with a small mutter of thanks.

“It is little early, but… I should save Horseface from the rain,” Aza said as Aymeric ate the apple, “He is outside on guard, if Em was wondering.”

Aymeric had been wondering, honestly. He’d noticed that Estinien’s bedroll was empty and untouched – but without a chronometer, Aymeric had no idea what time it was, or what _day,_ so assumed his friend was brooding in the crow’s nest again. All these fitful, random naps were disrupting his circadian rhythm, “Guard?”

“He is cautious,” Aza grumbled, “So we are doing guard. Em doesn’t have to. You can go back to sleep after eating.”

Aymeric felt a twinge of guilt at that, “If this is due to my bout of illness-”

“It is because we are guarding against Bluebird,” Aza interrupted him, “So no point in Em standing on deck, as good target, yes? So, Em stays here, eats apple, sleep, and get better. It is fine.”

It didn’t feel fine at all. Aymeric frowned at the Miqo’te, but he just ignored him, wriggling out of his bedroll completely. Aza was wearing very short shorts, and Aymeric couldn’t help but notice the scars that covered the man’s legs. Thin ones, jagged ones, faint outlines of a beast’s bite mark… all mapping lines over muscular, well-defined thighs and calves. They were legs to die for, and Aymeric forced his gaze away with some difficulty as Aza began to pull on his breeches and his armour.

“Do you think it… strange?” Aymeric asked after a pause, “You seem to be taking my odd dream in stride.”

“It is not that odd,” Aza said, pulling on his boots, “Such things are common in Wastes. Vargr possess and become beasts. People can see into the past and the future. Gods are born every day because of desperate prayers,” he looked up at Aymeric, his eyes shadowed with an unreadable emotion, “Death is… ambiguous.”

Aymeric frowned, puzzled by the last statement, but Aza pushed himself to his feet and hefted his greatsword from where it was resting against the wall.

“Rest, Em,” Aza told him, “If you are lucky, the dream is just a strange dream, and that is all. If it is because of the dragon blood thing instead…”

The Miqo’te glanced over at him with a wry smile, clicking his sword into its magnetic sheath.

“Then Em better hope the Holy See do not hunt dragons anymore, eh?”

* * *

Jijiroon was Not Happy about their current situation.

It was just before dawn, but the sky was still pitch black, lashes of lightning cutting over the low-hanging clouds and sheets of icy grey rain coming down hard. Jijiroon had to have some of his crew skitter over the deck to swab the excess water off, before it started leaking too much into the lower decks! Oh, Jijiroon _knew_ he should have renewed the water sealant, but it was Summer! Ishgard never rained this much in summer!

Jijiroon grumbled as he pulled his hood lower, the tip of his nose numb and dripping. He was huddled near the steering wheel, listening to the scrape of the anchor slowly being lifted. Normally Jijiroon wouldn’t leave while it was still so dark, but he was anxious about Bluebird. Coeurl might wave her off, but Jijiroon remembered when her Behemoth ate his uncle. Nasty girl, with an equally nasty temper! If she was mad at Coeurl about something, she wouldn’t care about sinking his boat to get at him!

The clink of metal armour reached his ears over the drone of falling rain, and he reluctantly turned to the tall, dour Elezen that had been prowling his ship all night. He made Jijiroon nervous, truthfully. The other Elezen was kind and quiet enough, mostly spending his time out of the way and sleeping, but this one stalked and terrified his crew with his harsh glaring and growled out words. He seemed like the sort Coeurl would _hate_ , not be friends with, but Jijiroon learned not to ask about Coeurl’s life. Too crazy and dangerous. Jijiroon only cared that he gave him rare items for good shinies.

“You’re raising anchor in this?” Scary Elezen growled at him.

Jijiroon nervously wrung his hands, but held his ground, “Yes, yes, Bluebird is stubborn. Best to keep distance, yes? It will be slow but sailing in this is possible.”

Scary Elezen nodded slowly and turned his eyeless helmet to look up the river – or, what little could be seen in such poor conditions. Flashes of lightning lit up the forest squatting on the shale shore, and it revealed no lurking beast or Bluebird ready to storm the ship. Jijiroon would feel _much_ better once they were sailing. Coeurl said Bluebird’s Firebird was dead, so she couldn’t catch them if they were in the water. Just angrily hop up and down on the shore, most like.

The boat shuddered and groaned as the anchor was raised, and Jijiroon quickly grasped the wheel. The swift, aggressive current of the river caught the vessel, and slowly began to pull it off the shore. Jijiroon held it steady, and soon they were sailing, the shale shore rapidly vanishing behind them. Jijiroon let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Ah! We’re moving! Good!”

Coeurl’s voice was obnoxiously cheerful as he strode up to them, dressed in his dark armour complete with Behemoth helm. Water was dripping from the narrow horns that swept forwards, his yellow eyes glinting in the visor slits making the mask seem almost _real_. It always gave Jijiroon’s heart flutters to see it.

“Stray,” Scary Elezen greeted, “You’re early.”

“Em woke up and woke _me_ up, so I came early,” Coeurl replied easily as he came to a stop beside Jijiroon, “He had bad dream again and is upset about it.”

Scary Elezen looked displeased about that, “There is nothing unusual about that after near deat-”

“I know. I am not judging him,” Coeurl said, “I am saying this, so you can talk to him. You know him better than me, yes? So, you can comfort better, most like.”

There was a pause, one where Scary Elezen rocked back on his heels in an almost startled manner. Then, almost grudgingly he muttered, “I see. Thank you, then.”

“Horseface must be ill, to be thanking me willingly,” Coeurl scoffed, “Has the rain helped shrink your fat head?”

“I retract my thanks,” Scary Elezen said peevishly, his fingers twitching like he wanted to unsling the lance strapped to his back, “You little-”

Lightning struck the river mere yalms from the boat. Jijiroon squeaked in surprise, superheated steam flaring up and sweeping over the deck as their boat sailed through it, his ears ringing from the sheer _noise_ of it cracking so close through the air. All three of them froze in place, the fur on Aza’s tail bristling in what Jijiroon recognised to be Miqo’te for ‘scared shitless’.

“Oooh… t-that was close,” Coeurl stammered, heaving a short breath like he was winded, “Too close.”

“The bloody hell was that?” Scary Elezen snapped, twisting round to see where the lightning had struck. Steam was still rising from the water, quickly disappearing into the gloom behind them. Above, the clouds growled and rumbled, dark purple and flickering from flashes of lightning high up amongst them. Jijiroon’s fur was standing on end from the ambient static electricity, like there was too much Lightning Aether. This didn’t feel… _natural_.

“Lightning. Horseface knows what lightning is, yes?” Coeurl snapped, peeking up at the broiling sky nervously, “Um, this does not seem normal though. Is this normal for Ishgard storms?”

“I’ve never seen it like this before,” Scary Elezen admitted, peering upwards as well.

“Not normal,” Jijiroon agreed timidly, clutching the steering wheel tight. He jumped when another flash of lightning crashed down, this time on the shoreline, causing the tree line to flare up orange when vegetation caught alight despite the rain. Ears still ringing, Jijiroon almost missed the low ’ _fwymptht’_ noise that happened almost immediately afters, and again, and again, almost like the beating of… wings…

Jijiroon looked up, his heart sinking to his toes.

“Coeurl,” he said, “I hear wings.”

There was a long pause at his statement, where both Coeurl and Scary Elezen stared up at the dark purple clouds, seething and crackling with an overabundance of Lightning Aether. Just past it, a shadow could just about be seen, the steady beating of massive, powerful wings cutting through the noise of thunder, rain and wind. It was clear something was flying over them. Something huge. Something brimming with Lightning Aether. Something like…

“Oh,” Coeurl said faintly, “A Thunderbird.”

* * *

Quetzalcoatl was hearing a Dragonsong for the first time in a thousand years.

It was quiet, and horrifically off-key and clumsy. A dissonance of noise and overabundance of sound, a sign of a dragon whelp untrained and inexperienced in the skill. All dragons conveyed their thoughts, and emotions, and dreams and power through their Dragonsongs. They did great things, could perform miracles… but where dangerous, when left alone and untrained.

Quetzalcoatl skimmed low over the clouds, listening to the Song. _This_ was what called them. Not Bluebird’s summons, but this quiet, young voice, calling out aimlessly for a response that will never come. How did a young dragon whelp come to be, when all of its kin were dead? Quetzalcoatl did not know, and neither will they ever know. Bluebird has asked them to grant it mercy, and that is what they will do. It is kinder, to kill the whelp before its lonesome singing twisted it into the Dreadwyrm reborn.

Still, it sounded so sad.

But Quetzalcoatl felt no hesitation. They tucked in their wings and dived through the clouds, towards the river below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, I'm on holiday so I've been relaxing and taking a creative break which I sorely needed! I felt bad keeping such a big gap though, so I split the chapter I was writing so I could post the first half at the very least! Regarding the content of this chapter though, yes, Songs will be very important and Be A Thing. The song that features in this fic is [Despedia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEW3VQiRdQM), though who is singing it exactly, who knows :3 
> 
> Worldbuilding was fun in this chapter, but I wanted to get it out of the way before the action starts. 
> 
> Please kudos/comment if you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> YOU CAN BLAME TUMBLR FOR THIS. Someone asked me to do a short few lines on a knight&king AU with FFXIV and I just... got the plot bunny and... hgdajdjf I HAD TO WRITE IT!
> 
> I have. Majority. Of. Plot figured out. Just tryna think of where to slot like, most of the FFXIV character in this, as in, what their social ranking would be. Hmmm. HMMMMM. HMMMM. 
> 
> At least I get to fulfill my world building fetish. 
> 
> Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed!


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